The whole morning, while I watched people gather in front of the Supreme Court building and videotaped the sights and sounds and costumes (and the opponent's marching band, complete with bagpipes), the song Classical Gas kept playing in my head on a continuous loop.

This was edited in my head before I even got back home. Enjoy!

The milestone in the life of San Francisco's LGBT newspaper was celebrated around the country and became a media story unto itself. "AIDS Deaths Take Holiday," trumpeted the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. "For Once, No AIDS," said the Wilmington Morning Star. The headline in the Spokesman Review assured us that "No News is Good News." The Bay Area Reporter's own front page carried two words in enormous type: "No Obits."

That could be seen as the moment in which coverage of HIV in gay media began to fade.

Today, the LGBT community is celebrating other milestones with joyful regularity. The right to serve openly in the military. Marriage. Growing acceptance and political muscle.

Video bloggers like myself can certainly appreciate the ambitions of this young lady, bringing her beauty tips to the masses. And I really love how she peppers her sentences (okay, every other word) with "you know" and "um, like."

She has become more successful than she every imagined. Worldwide. Because everyone (and yes, that includes you), loves to watch the look of horror on a young face when all her internet dreams lay smoldering in her hands. Literally.

Enjoy!

Or not. Depending on whom you believe. Let's break down the strange case of Uncle Poodle.

In what we can all agree was a positive development, Thompson publicly came out as gay last year and evidently has the love and support of much of his family, the colorful clan of the TLC reality show "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo." He instantly became an ally and friend of gays everywhere. So far, so good.

Then, in a recent interview with the Atlanta gay magazine Fenuxe, Thompson made the announcement that he tested HIV positive in May of 2012. What was startling, though, was his explanation of his infection. Thompson claimed that not only had an ex-lover knowingly infected him, but that the man is currently serving a five-year sentence for non-disclosure of his HIV status (an example of what is known as HIV Criminalization).

Almost immediately the details of the story were questioned (by everyone except Fenuxe magazine, which did not delve into the prosecution in their piece; the writer simply "applauded" Thompson's bravery). Journalist Todd Heywood posed serious questions about the case, including the timeline between Thompson's infection and the reported prosecution, which would have happened in mere months. Heywood also scoured court records from Georgia to Alabama and could find no evidence of any such case. Requests for more information from Thompson's people have garnered no response. The defendant has never been identified.

Did Uncle Poodle lie about sending the ex-lover to jail? And why the hell would he do that?

It is my opinion that Thompson made up the prosecution story. And in doing so, he behaved in much the same way that most everyone does who tests HIV positive these days. He looked for someone else to blame. He played the innocent victim. He released himself from personal responsibility.

Because everybody knows that when you test HIV positive, you don't call your doctor to start treatment. You call the police to press charges.

I really wish that people would put down their smelling salts and try to understand the reasons why. Instead, every time some half-assed study demonstrates what we already know, they stand there in stunned outrage, frozen in their outdated indignation like they've been caught baking bread in Pompeii.

There's nothing new here, except our seemingly endless fascination with gay men behaving in exactly the same way as nearly every other man on this planet.

Maybe those who find bareback sex distasteful believe they are being politically correct, that their strident judgments about the sex lives of others are in the service of HIV prevention, that criticizing other gay men for acting like human beings will somehow alter instincts that evolution built over millions of years.

Perhaps this is part of our new gay agenda, to demonstrate to straight society that we're just as good at shaming gay men as they are, that we'll gladly be neutered for equal rights and be denied the same pleasures they take for granted, that if they only give us gay marriage we won't talk about the unprotected butt fucking that will happen on the wedding night.

Somehow, we have come to the homophobic conclusion that when gay men engage in the romantic, emotional, spiritual act of intercourse without a barrier we label it psychotic barebacking, but when straight people do it we call it sex.

I was mortified beyond belief. To this day, I must be sure no one is in the house, and then close and lock the bedroom and bathroom doors before I can properly relax. And I live alone.

But you can't avoid everything anal if you're growing up gay. Not if you want to do the really fun stuff.

Thus my conundrum as a youth: exploring the pleasures of my tush while fighting the terror that something stinky might be going on down there. And I suspect I am not alone in this particular anxiety.

I discovered soon enough that if someone had serious intentions in regard to my backside, I couldn't simply rely upon a bran muffin and a Hail Mary to be properly prepared. God forbid I would, you know, not be... well, you know. This ongoing fear had a habit of wrecking the mood and the evening.

My exclamations during sex were usually panicked calls to turn the lights up, so I could carefully inspect the situation. Or a plea to stop altogether. "Okay, that's fine, no wait!" I would cry out. "Am I okay down there? I mean, is it... okay go ahead... no hold on! Are you sure I'm...?" I was usually so involved with my protestations that I would hardly notice my date gathering his things to leave.

AIDS did not kill Spencer Cox in the first, bloodiest battles of the 1980's. It spared him that.

The reprieve allowed Spencer's brilliance as co-founder of the Treatment Action Group (TAG) to forge new FDA guidelines for drug approval and help make effective HIV medications a reality, saving an untold number of lives.

Such triumph by a man still in his twenties might have signaled even greater achievements ahead. Instead, Spencer found himself adrift in the same personal crisis as many of his contemporaries, who struggled for a meaningful existence after years of combating the most frightening public health crisis of modern times.

Gay activists like Spencer were consumed by AIDS for so many gruesome years that many of them were shocked, once the war abated, to see how little around them had changed. Climbing from the trenches, they saw a gay culture that must have seemed ludicrous, packed with the same drug addictions, sexual compulsions and soulless shenanigans that AIDS, in its singular act of goodwill, had arrested for a decade or so.

It was December of my senior year of high school, and things had calmed down considerably after my having burst forth from the closet that Fall, wearing go-go boots to school dances and openly flaunting my twenty-something boyfriend. But these were all healthy choices, I told myself.

If there was nothing wrong with being gay, then there should be nothing defiant about letting my family know about it. And my friends. And my teachers. And people at church. Never mind that we lived in Bossier City, Louisiana. Or that it was 1977.

But there was something about that look in my mother's eyes, in that moment. It took all my arrogance to protect myself from it, to seek refuge from the shocked stare, the battle in her face between heartbreak and fury. She was squeezing tightly to the silver watchband, and her hand shook imperceptibly.

The boyfriend had been my downfall, of course. He was both too old and too immature for me, and Mom knew it. She also knew that spending so much time with him that previous summer wasn't usual for a 16-year-old. So when she spotted a letter I'd written to him, she figured it would tell her what she wanted to know. She opened it.

It never occurred to me to place blame for that indiscretion. I was relieved when my parents found out, actually, and once that suspense was over I could get on with the business of scandalizing my high school.

There were brief exchanges between us following my big gay reveal, tense moments crowded with frustration and unfocused love. "What's your problem with it?" I would ask, adorned with multiple pooka shell necklaces or sporting a man-made hickey without shame, "What's your problem with me being gay?" I possessed more self-righteousness than an HRC dinner.

"And how long have you been off drugs?" he asked. The look in his eyes carried a journalist's skepticism. The intense lights of the CNN studio seemed to brighten at the question.

"Six months," I answered. The idea of appearing at the anchor desk with Don Lemon was losing its allure. Granted, I wanted to help promote the documentary Meth, and discuss gay men, drug abuse, and my own crystal meth addiction. But the interview had become too real, too well lit, and far too direct for me to escape the truth with my usual manipulations.

"And where are you living now?" Don asked me. I felt flush, reddened by shame and by the pitiful answer I was now obligated to give.

"I live in a halfway house with other men recovering from addiction, Don."

My mother is watching, I thought. My friends. And people who know me who will be far too polite to ever mention they saw this.

Don Lemon's news story was insightful and illuminated a very real health threat to gay men. And it featured an actual gay drug addict on camera. A well-spoken one, but an addict just the same.

In the six years since those uncomfortable few minutes, I published a book about living in Los Angeles during the dawn of AIDS. I embraced my HIV status by launching my blog, My Fabulous Disease. And despite relapses and lessons along the way, I have faced my addiction and loosened its grip on my life and productivity.

And so, as fate would have it, I found myself back at Don Lemon's desk recently, live on the air, to talk about living with HIV and how I was combating stigma with weapons of joy and good humor (pictured above, with video below).

On the last night of the cruise I gave him an award for "Sweetest Backstory," explaining to the crowd that his cruise ticket was a Christmas gift from his sister, who clearly loves him very much (the awards are really just a silly way to acknowledge various people on the ship). He accepted the award with tears streaming down his face, while dozens upon dozens of new friends applauded heartily.

It is that fellowship, that embrace of our lives and all that we are, that best describes the week-long event on the high seas.

Sailing from Ft Lauderdale to various islands of the Caribbean, the Cruise Retreat included more than 200 gay men, women and our supporters. Along the way, there were games, shore excursions and even budding romances. The protective walls that often surround those of us living with HIV came crumbling down, replaced with new relationships, email addresses and phone numbers. By the time we docked back in Ft Lauderdale, hugs were long and new confidants had been established.

I don't expect that everyone has the ability to afford the trip, but the message of the event - reach out for support and friendships where ever you might find them - echoes in my mind and heart today. Thanks for watching, and please be well.

Well, actually, I would. And have. Many Gay Pride parades ago, in 1994, I marched while wearing a t-shirt that said "NO ONE KNOWS I'M HIV POSITIVE." This was prior to the advent of protease inhibitors, when many were still dying. The shirt felt like an enormous "screw you" to the virus, to the body count, and to anyone who had a problem with my status.

During the Atlanta Pride parade and festival, I tried to reconcile my own "HIV OUT" status with those who can't speak for themselves, and I investigated a simple question: if HIV is nothing to be ashamed of, can it be something to be proud of?

Thanks for watching, and please be well.

Kearns' mother couldn't be contained and interrupted the proceedings. "Your honor," she said. "Why is this man lying? The truth is bad enough!"

The truth is sometimes difficult, to be sure, but in the case of this engaging and fast moving autobiography, it's also hilarious. There's nothing more formidable than a drama queen with legitimate drama on their hands, and the life of talented, alcoholic, HIV infected, highly theatrical and perpetually horny Michael Kearns has had more peril than an Aaron Spelling series.

Kearns began his career in the midst of the "gay lib" of the 1970's even if Hollywood was tight lipped on the topic, and it is that disconnect that pushes the openly gay Kearns into an unintended activist role and confounds his career aspirations.

After a featured role playing the older brother of John-Boy on The Waltons, Kearns' future seemed secure. But test audiences reacted poorly to their scenes together because they showed the characters away at college. Kearns' character never appeared again. Rumors that he was fired because he was openly gay were untrue but persisted for years.

Meanwhile, Kearns had a boyfriend who had written a fictional book called The Happy Hustler, and for which Kearns had modeled for the cover image. In order to generate book sales, a plan was hatched to present Kearns as the actual Happy Hustler - the book's author - and send him on a press tour. Having been banished from Walton Mountain and still hungry for stardom of some kind, any kind, Kearns agreed to take on the counterfeit persona as a sort of exercise in ongoing performance art.

The seven foot Mexican drag queen handing out condoms springs to mind, of course. The astonishingly talented performance poet Mary Bowman (right), showing us her heart and soul on stage. And escape artist Daniel Bauer's highly personal show mixing magic with confessions from his life as a gay man living with HIV. Seeing presentations by mentors I admire, such as Sean Strub and Edwin Bernard. The Australian chief justice with a gay partner of 43 years, giving me suggestions on maintaining a long marriage ("Give in," he advised).

In this farewell video posting, I pay tribute to the people on the front lines who are the very essence of this conference. They are the ones with the "star power," and they fill me with renewed commitment and energy that might possibly last until AIDS2014 in Melbourne, Australia.

Thanks for watching, my friends. It has been my privilege to be your tour guide and I deeply appreciate your many notes and cross-posts and "likes" on Facebook. I like you very much, too.

Thank God I'm a video blogger, because words escape me when trying to describe the colors and displays and most importantly, the committed people behind it all. You're about to meet drag queens who make their living handing out condoms, sex workers demanding an end to criminalization, young prevention workers from far-flung corners of the planet, a stunning photo exhibit from the Ukraine... the list goes on.

Why wait? Take a look at my video report. Welcome to the Global Village!

I spent some time in the exhibit hall critiquing the fashions (and the issues) of various attendees with fashion maven Jack Mackenroth, started a YouTube rivalry with inspirational singer Jamar Rogers ("The Voice"), and learned about HIV and aging from an expert with the Terrence Higgins Trust.

And, with all the talk at the conference about the devastating effects of HIV stigma, I found validation of my own HIV status in the unlikeliest of places: the Gallery Place subway station.

Coming up: the amazing Global Village and a march on Washington by advocates from around the world!