In case you've been living in a well-stocked bomb shelter for the past few weeks, you've most likely heard that the California Supreme Court voted 4-3 to legalize same-sex marriages.

Well, hooray and all that, but it's got me a bit troubled. I'm not so much bothered about those clowns at Save California and their terribly irritating November ballot measure because, for some extraordinary reason, I've recently been instilled with an unreasonable amount of faith in the majority of California voters. For now.

No, what troubles me is this--

What on earth does one feed a banquet hall full of homosexuals? That's a dilemma that would strike any sane wedding planner apoplectic. Individually, a gay man might respond to foodstuffs in a manner similar to that of a straight man, but get five or more in a room together and watch out. Have you ever baked a birthday cake for a gay man's birthday party, only to find thirty or so other gay men moaning about carbohydrates, telling you that while the dessert you've just put your heart and soul into looks great, they'll just have to pass on it, while patting their stomach? Well, I have, and what I have since learned is this: Guzzling vodka = good carbs, eating a tiny sliver of polenta cake= It-will-make-me-fat-and-then-no-one-will-love me-or-think-I'm-hot bad.

No, cake is out of the question. Perhaps a wedding protein shake would be more fitting. Of course, there's the problem of slicing.

How does one approach a gay reception? For one couple I know, I imagine there would be a chilled Ketel One fountain splashing about. Would others prefer a Teddy Bear Picnic motif? I think the traditional menus might need a going over. Instead of fish or chicken, the invitations should request a preference for either no-carb or sauce on the side.

And what on earth do you feed a roomful of lesbians? There is only so much quinoa to be had in any given season, you know.

Entertainment? If Melissa Etheridge is too busy with her own wedding or too highly priced to perform at yours, will gym teacher-turned-songbird Ann Murray do? I don't know for certain if she is a lesbian, but she's Canadian and not as busy as she used to be, and that often works in a pinch.

If you are planning a wedding and you want it gay-officiated, gay photographed, and gay-catered (I'm going to assume you'd be picking a gay deejay anyway), one resource with possibilities I've found is the Golden Gate Business Association. Hound them. While there is so far no specific section of their website dedicated to gay wedding needs, I think it would be wise for them to throw one together. Like now.

Of course, chances are, your wedding planner might be a gay man with some inside channels, one might hope. And then there's the gay florists and caterers, who tend to be busy in the June wedding season anyway. Citizen Cake, for example, has been flooded with wedding cake orders this month-- gay and straight.

Hypothesizing same-sex wedding scenarios is time well spent, but this is what really bothers me…

When I contacted the Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender Center of San Francisco for information, I was told by the gentleman who assisted me that the Center was "so overwhelmed with Pride" at the moment to do anything about same-sex weddings. So overwhelmed with Pride. It's as busy and as gay a month as anyone can imagine. And so emotional, apparently.

The Big Gay resource centers do not yet have a handle on this new marriage business. I can't say I don't understand, since it was all rather unexpected and came at a time when everyone was already too excited by the selection of Charo as our Gay Pride Grand Marshall to think of anything else. But time's a-wasting. The weddings start happening on June 17th. Or, as rumor has it, the evening of the 16th.

The fact of the gay wedding matter is our selection of go-to wedding assistance is very limited. There's always GayWeddings.com. Its a good starting point, certainly, but theyre Washington-based. What we need is something local. So you'll just have to go through the traditionally straight channels to plan that day you've always dreamed about but never thought would actually happen.

And that's a big, crying shame. The fact that the Gay BLT Center or whatever it's called is too "overwhelmed" with, um, Pride tells me that they really don't have their priorities, um straight. From an historic point of view, this is a big, big, BIG moment for San Francisco's Lesbians and Gays. From a financial point of view, same-sex weddings are a booming business. Tens of thousands of gay couples will be flocking to our state-- and our city-- to get married to the tune of nearly three-quarters of a billion dollars over the next couple of years. Sure, parades are fun-- wave a flag, wear some hot pants, and shake your ass on a corporate-sponsored float all you want-- it's a damned parade, for Christ's sake. I just don't want us to miss the real parade that might be passing us by.

Or the gravy train.

Of course we won't really miss it. Businesses will pop up like so many mushrooms: gay wedding planners, gay photographers, gay divorce lawyers. Perhaps The Midnight Sun will rent itself out for receptions. I just hope that, after the drunken haze of Pride Season clears, we can focus on what should really make us proud (Sorry, Charo, it isn't you)-- that we are finally equal under California State law. We can have our own weddings and, even better, attend those of our straight friends and families without that sad, nagging "I can never have this" feeling-- whether you want your own wedding or not.

Until November, anyway, when we'll have to fight again.

You know why I'm fighting? Because the next time a guy introduces his "hus-bear" to me, I can ask to see the rings as proof of their wedded bliss. I only hope to God they show me the ones on their fingers.

A few weeks ago, I was watching To Be or Not To Be at a friend's house where, after the film, I wandered into the kitchen to help myself to a glass of water. As I was drinking, I spied an oddly-titled book on the kitchen table-- Muscle Chow. I picked it up and began to thumb through...

I barely had the chance to scan the recipe for Muscle Meatloaf before my friend walked in, shouted something about his not wanting me to see the book, and tried to rip it from my hands. I had a fairly firm grasp on the thing, but it was clear he was determined. Though the idea of a playful round of kitchen wrestling was appealing, I let go-- I could see the red fires of shame burning his eye sockets.

My pleas for a longer look at the thing were met with a firm "No."

Muscle Meatloaf? God, I thought, no wonder he was embarrassed. But why mortifyingly so? The level of alarm he displayed would have been appropriate if I had, say, found a bottle of poppers, a traffic cone, and can of Crisco accidentally left lying about in the dining room. But, no, this was just a little cookbook left among the stack of papers and news weeklies on his kitchen table. What was the big deal?

It felt as though I had stumbled upon his secret stash of porn. In a sense, I did, but it was food porn. Gay food porn. Perhaps it was the embarrassing admission that he, too, had fallen victim to the gay curse of body dysmorphia. I should have known something was up when he wanted to stop on the way to dinner and buy a bottle of flax seed oil.

I just had to get a hold of a copy for myself, so I did. In fact, I have two, thanks to my not understanding the Click-and-Buy feature at Amazon.com. And next time, I will make certain my purchases aren't sent to my rather perplexed ex-boyfriend.

Ready, Set, Cook.

Before I start complaining about the writing of this cookbook, I must state that it's actually a good resource for those looking to eat well, build muscle, and burn fat. Really. And it's hard not to like any diet-related book that warns against not eating enough. That said...

If ever a cookbook could grunt, it would be Muscle Chow, published by Men's Health. Filled with enough manly posturing to make a professional wrestler uncomfortable, the recipes are straight forward and fairly sound. I suppose the creative team had no choice to pump up the He-Man tone of the book-- how else are you going to get He-men to eat things like Strawberry Salad or Cucumber-Lime Gelatin? You hide them between recipes entitled "Fix 'N' Eat Sardine Sandy" and "Ultimate Muscle Stacks", a muscle-boy riff on pancakes-- that's how.

It's really the names of the recipes that leave me simultaneously amused and disgusted. Ripped Chicken? I picture a violent death. Muscle-Bound Chili? I should think the kidney beans would be more likely to un-bind. Cherry Custard Protein Pie? That just make me feel so dirty I want to take a shower.

Muscle Chow is a fun read, if just for those recipes alone. And the number of "'N'" recipes-- Tofu 'N' Whey Surprise, Oat Peaches 'N' Cream, and On-The-Go Cottage Cheese 'N' Bananas (which is listed next to On-The-Go Cottage Cheese And Preserves) suggest just that-- that a muscle man is too on-the-go to have time to write out the letters a-n-d. It also suggests a certain self-consciousness about spending too much time in the kitchen, which is disappointing.

In fairness to my friend, I think this book was purchased with a desire for greater health and well-being in mind. I don't think he's planning on turning himself into the next Colt Men cover boy. (Please, say it isn't so.) So I wish him luck in his muscle chow and I shall salute his efforts by raising my spoon and digging into a hearty baby food-infused helping of Vein-Poppin' "Tapioca" Pudding.

Cheers.

Peanut Butter Muscle Bombs

I chose to make this recipe because of the name, naturally. That and the fact that I was glad I could use up another 1/4 cup of the molasses that's been sitting in my cupboard, neglected. I was shocked by how absolutely addictive they are. Really.

Ingredients:

2 cups all-natural unsalted crunchy peanut butter, drained of separated oil

2 scoops vanilla whey protein powder (a measuring scoop is included in every can)

1/4 cup + 1 tablespoon molasses

2 tablespoons whole flax seeds.

Preparation:

1. In a large bowl, mix together all ingredients. This takes some muscle (their words, not mine).

2. Form the mixture into walnut-sized balls. Place in a container lined with waxed paper or parchment, separating each layer with another sheet of waxed paper or parchment.

3. Chill in the freezer or fridge for at least two hours before serving.

Makes 25 bombs.

Notes:

I was uncertain as to just what "walnut-sized" meant. Shelled or unshelled? Given the problem of steroid use within the bodybuilding community and it's resultant testicular shrinkage, it isn't surprising they managed to squeeze 25 of these out of the recipe. I only got 20 out of it.

Also, I decided to place the flax seeds on the outside of the balls, since the whey powder lends a very unpleasant-looking greenish tinge to the brown of the molasses and peanut-butter, which made the resulting balls roughly the color of a dog's fecal matter after he's eaten too much grass. Rolling the bombs in the seeds not only disguises this, but makes their handling much easier, too. Talking about the bombs with my friend Jay, he warned me that eating too much flax would aid not only in the pumping up of one's muscles, but the pumping out of one's bowels.

"Like a duck down a slide," he said.

Enjoy.