Skipper Takes the Wheel

Les Ombres Part Deux: Colton Steele Gets Trapped

2008-11-15T16:59:00.000-06:00

Les Ombres Part Deux: Colton Steele Gets Trapped

The Great Tank Top Rebellion

2008-05-20T21:00:00.004-05:00

It was a rare, beautiful weekend in Memphis.

I mean not just beautiful, but picture-perfect. The skies were blue. The clouds were fluffy and white. The temperatures hovered around 80. And it was late on a Sunday afternoon. We had been out at the ballfield to watch Hotass play softball. (The Pumping Station Heat won their two games. Go Heat!) And it was still early enough in the afternoon that we were hungry and feeling like we could pack away a drink or four.

One of the best patios in Memphis is Bosco's. Conveniently located in Midtown, Bosco's serves up some good homebrew as well as a kick-ass pizza. So on this late spring Sunday afternoon, we thought we'd blow up into Bosco's and enjoy the afternoon.

Now mind you, we were dressed casually. Shorts. Sandals. And, yes, some among us were wearing tanktops or at the least a muscle shirt.

Five us of walked in. The hostess looked right us and proceeded to walk away to the bar, where she said to the bartender, "I need to ask you a question." The bartender noticed us and pointed at us as if to say, "You dumb girl, you've got a table of five ready to be seated." She came back, grabbed some menus and proceeded to lead us to the patio.

We passed a table of Bosco's servers, probably on their break or ones who had just been cut. And one shouts out as our hostess leads us to the patio, "Hey! No tank-tops!"

As our polite, but seemingly oblivious, server showed us to a table on the patio, which was sparsely occupied by smokers and a few others, another one of Bosco's staff burst through door and reiterated what had been shouted out by the off-duty servers. "I'm sorry but you can't wear tanktops."

Wha?

"We don't allow tanktops but we'll be glad to give you a t-shirt to wear."

Excuse me? But what about girls with their skinny little spaghetti straps and their cleavage hanging out over their Flaming Stone?

Apparently, boobs are ok.

We all declined the Bosco's t-shirts and quickly made our exits, muttering to everyone within listening distance how stupid and decidedly sexist the Bosco's dress code was.

To Bosco's credit, they do post on their front door "Appropriate Attire Required." But that's it.

I agree that businesses reserve the right to decide what dress is appropriate for their customers. For example, I wouldn't expect Paulette's, right next door to Bosco's. to let us in wearing only t-shirts, sandals and shorts. That's why we chose Bosco's, because Bosco's has a casual menu, a full homebrewed beer selection and a fairly casual atmosphere.

But at Bosco's there is no definition of what exactly is appropriate attire. Is it coat and tie? Perhaps it's Japanese kimonos? Maybe only Eskimo parkas are appropriate? Who can say? It's pretty commonplace for "No shirt, no shoes, no service." But come on. We were wearing sandals (as were most of the women, and a few of the guys.) And it's not as if manboobs were exposed to everyone. And our only sin was that our sleeve-line rose up two inches above where it could have been.

Secondly, if this was a Bosco's policy, how come our hostess and the bartender,who so politely pointed out to her that we were ready to be seated, weren't aware of this policy? It would seem like the hostess would be the first line of defense against the undesirables who come through the front door in tanktops.

Thirdly, let's talk about the assholes who were on break or had recently been cut. If we were indeed in violation, was it really good customer service for the cut staff seated at a booth drinking their pints of beer and counting their tips to shout out "Hey! No tank tops!" as we walked by?

The bottom line is that a business can adopt any policy it wants for its customers. If you only want black people in line green plaid sportcoats, it's a free country. Whatever you think will make you money or satisfy your cockeyed sense of capitalism.

However, be consistent and be sensible. So a girl wants to walk in a spaghetti strap tank dress with her tits bulging out of it. Big deal. Just don't be indignant when a guy walks in a tank top. At the worst, he's showing his pit hair and maybe some side flaps. But I've seen some girls who show the same damn thing.

So tell me... who was in the "wrong" in this scenario?

Guess What I'm Thinking About

2008-05-11T14:05:00.001-05:00

maninmemphis.muxtape.com

Just a Passing Reminder

2008-05-07T18:25:00.002-05:00

What follows sounds like it came from one of those passed-along email forwards, and if I didn't forward it to five of my friends by midnight, gorillas would eat all the cheese in the world and I wouldn't find love until I was 40. I usually delete those emails without regard for the world's cheese supply.

Nevertheless, I got a random friend request on mySpace (from some guy who already has 6,313 friends) and when I went to his page, one of the first things I saw was this:

As we grow up, we learn that even the one person that wasn't supposed to ever let you down probably will.

You will have your heart broken, probably more than once and it's harder every time. You'll break hearts too, so remember how it felt when yours was broken.

You'll fight with your best friend.

You'll blame a new love for things an old one did.

You'll cry because time is passing too fast, and you'll eventually lose someone you love.

So take too many pictures, laugh too much, and love like you've never been hurt because every sixty seconds you spend upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.

Don't be afraid that your life will end, be afraid that it will never begin.

LIVE SIMPLY.

LOVE GENEROUSLY.

CARE DEEPLY.

SPEAK KINDLY.

LEAVE THE REST TO GOD.

And on a day when I'm really tired, borderline cranky and generally feeling unappreciated, it was a good reminder to slow down and enjoy the little happy's in life.

Tonight, I promise to take too many pictures.

Highlights of the Day

2008-04-29T19:37:00.003-05:00

I left work at noon today because I had an appointment at the "happiest place on earth." No, not Disneyland. The happiest place on earth has to be 201 Poplar. Yes, that was sarcasm dripping on you.

For you non-Memphians, that would be the county courthouse, and it is positively the most - as my friend Pink Lady would say - unfortunate place in the city. Seriously, there are some sad, sad people down there, and really, what do they have to be happy about? They're in court. They're going to jail, or they're paying fines -- unless they were me and had the ticket for expired registration and not having valid proof of insurance dismissed.

But seriously, just because you're going to jail, does that give you an excuse to look bad?

When I left court, I got a massage. You see, I pulled a muscle in my lower back over the weekend, and it's gotten sore-er and worse-er since Saturday. Yesterday at work I couldn't stand up straight. It hurted. Bad.

Last night, LarryD bought me dinner and Darvocet. Yes, that's sweet, but what's sweeter is that when he called to ask what I wanted for dinner, I said something from Jason's Deli. He asked what side I wanted. Soup? Chips? Fries?

Fries?, I said. I want fries but Jason's doesn't have fries, so just get me potato salad.

When LarryD showed up with dinner, he had fries. Nothing says love like french fries. I love that man.

Last but not least, today is the day I've been looking forward to for a couple of months now. Madonna's latest album, Hard Candy, was released today. Guess what I'm listening to?

Tootie's Jellybean Holder

2008-04-28T19:12:00.001-05:00

I don't know why I don't remember this. This was my favorite TV show in the early 80s.

In this light, treehugging Has Never Looked Better

2008-04-23T16:04:00.004-05:00

Okay, so I apologize that I missed the Earth Day post, but in my web wanderings yesterday, I came across this, what simply must be the most fabulous eco-friendly item this year: ILLUMINATED WALLPAPER.

The inventor has yet to make it clear how it works, but somehow this wallpaper uses e-ink and organic light-emitting diodes (very low energy consumption) to make the electronic components paper-thin and capable of being rolled or flattened into a two-dimensional surface.

You can turn it off and on like a lamp, and when it's off, you can't even tell that it's a light source.

Summer Came Crashing to a Halt

2008-04-23T07:49:00.003-05:00

In case you've been checking out the blog of MFLFWAAA (my favorite lady friend with an Adam's apple), you already know that our boys on the Heat softball team didn't play so hot. They lost their first and second games, but by golly, they gave it their best effort. Perhaps Heat refers to what they are supposed to apply to their sore muscles after every game.

And in the case of one member of the team, the first and second games of the season were also his last. During what can only be described as a valiant effort to safe third base, my Larry-D fractured his right shoulder. He played the rest of the game, had drinks at the Pumping Station, grilled out kebabs with the boys -- all the time in some serious pain.

He's out of commission from work for the whole week, and is all strapped up in a sling (not that kind of sling!!).

So perhaps he'll sit this summer out, joining Andrew Joseph and I in stands with Black Box wine.

Boys of Summer

2008-04-16T17:59:00.009-05:00

So it seems that summer Sunday afternoons will find Andrew Joseph and I as softball wives.

Yes, the men we love -- Rob-Day, LarryD and Hotass/Miss Yellowpants too -- have signed up to play gay softball. And since Andrew Joseph and I would rather die than play team sports (okay so I'd rather die; he'd rather wear synthetic fibers), we have designated ourselves as the unofficial cheerleaders. And that means we intend to sit in lawn chairs with a wine & cheese basket, fanning ourselves and swatting mosquitoes the size of tanker trucks.

So far, we have accompanied the boys of summer to the batting cage. After they batted (I even got in a swing or two and, to my surprise, I don't always swing like a girl), they went off to play miniature golf; AJ & I entertained ourselves with a round of LaserTag. See, LaserTag is not a team sport, and we had the best time.

This past Sunday, we had every intention of watching the team (the name? the Pumping Station Heat) practice, but apparently there was no heat in Memphis. It was just fucking cold in Memphis on Sunday, so we gave up on the boys and went shopping.

Their first game is Sunday (it's a double-header, and I can't even say that without smirking), and I really hope I can be there for it. My duties as co-editor of the Memphis fag rag have me committed to layout, but perhaps I can get out of there early enough in the afternoon so that I can watch my beloved play. The weather is supposed to be beautiful on Sunday (of course!), so I may shirk my responsibilities and be the good boyfriend. And I know that he'll be wearing an orange jockstrap which makes the game better. At least from my perspective.

And before you start thinking that these boys have been recruited for some kind of Bad News Bears kind of team, you have to know that this is the same team that won the NATIONAL title last year for their division. Nothing to sneeze at.

This year Andrew Joseph and I might see our boys playing in the championships in Seattle. And even if they don't, I'm sure the wine and cheese will be delicious.

80 Days

2008-04-15T20:46:00.003-05:00

In exactly 80 days, I will be in Key West. At some point on July 4, I will arrive at the Key West Airport (assuming my boyfriend ever gets the plane tickets). I will walk across the tarmac to pick up my suitcase, and will be whisked a few blocks away to haven in paradise.

There will be fruit and coffee every morning. There will be long lazy days relaxing by the pool with a book. There will be afternoon strolls down the quiet streets where the air is thick with tropical fragrance. There will be key lime pie and cocktails in the shade.

Larry-D and I will have our picture made in front of the Southernmost Point in the U.S marker, and we will sleep peacefully in our well-appointed and air conditioned room. We might even take a sunset cruise. We will enjoy fantastic meals with our friends, Rob-Day and Andrew Joseph, and we will check in repeatedly with our friend, Hotass, because we miss him.

And most of all, for seven whole days, I will pretend that I live in this island paradise and that I never have to come back to Memphis.

80 days...tomorrow there will only be 79...

Currently listening to: Zero 7 - Red Dust

Friday Can't Come Soon Enough

2008-04-11T16:36:00.008-05:00

I'm not sure what's going on lately, but I live for Friday. No, more than usual. I mean really I LIVE for Friday. By the time Friday rolls around, I'm positively fit to be tied, and with each passing hour on Friday, I'm more and more fidgety, trying to think of an excuse to leave early and start the weekend.

Today, my boss was gone by the time I got back from lunch; he was off to play golf. Throughout the afternoon, people around me disappeared, their cubes empty, computers dark. And when your boss leaves early on Friday, that's a damn good sign. But I had some things to finish before I could leave...so at 3:45 I was out the door, and I'm fairly certain I skipped to the elevator.

I've always been eager to see Friday come, but since I started this new job in January, I've been feeling a little uninspired. I think I was so desperate to leave the old one that I didn't quite think about what I was jumping into. So now I'm a peon in corporate America, surrounded by accountants. Those accountants speak a language all their own and tend to be a little uptight. So after being around all that for 40 hours a week, it's really no wonder I can't wait for the weekend.

Being an adult sucks.

Currently listening to: Variety Lab - London In the Rain

Semi-Clean Bill of Health

2008-04-10T15:25:00.007-05:00

So the doctor says to his patient, "I've got good news and I've got bad news. The good news is you have six months to live." The patient says, "If that's the good news, what's the bad news?" The doctor says, "Your test results are six month late."

Ok, so my follow-up doctor's appointment today wasn't that bad, but it was still a good news/bad news scenario. The good news is that after just a month on blood pressure medication, my BP is down from an all-time high of 140 over 100-and-ohmygod, down to a very, very healthy 100/80. Dr. Marty even checked it a second time after the nurse because he said it was too good to be true. But tis true.

The bad news is that my cholesterol is still far too high for someone my age and weight. And yes I may be packing a few extra pounds (I weigh 168, you nosy bitches, and even that is down from a month ago). So it's cholesterol medication for me -- at least for the next four months.

I guess that's not so bad. In addition to a trip to Key West in July, I've got blood pressure and cholesterol as motivation to diet and exercise.

Also, I think I'll start trying to pack as much gratutious male flesh into my posts as possible. We'll see how that works out.

Currently listening to: Alanis Morissette - Not the Doctor

Taking another swing at this blog thing

2008-04-09T17:30:00.007-05:00

Well it almost seems ridiculous to think that once again I might actually attempt to maintain this disappointment called a blog. But every time Dusty sees me, he brings up how disappointed he is that my blog has died. And truth be told I've been itching to resurrect this thing...again.

Of course, at this point, I'm not sure who would even be dropping by to see what I have to say. Maybe Dusty. Maybe Artist. Maybe some random person from Beataqueer, Arkansas, I've never met before but who has been engaged in some hefty hand-wrenching, eagerly awaiting my return to the blogosphere. Maybe, but I doubt it.

So I'm going to try to not shoot my wad all in one post. I'll stretch out what's been going on in my life and pepper in some useful and not-so-useful stuff as I think about it. Hell, I have a camera phone. Maybe I'll just keep you updated on the holes in my socks.

So until the next post, here's my middle toe in the hole in my sock.

One more thing: I'll take a nod from Dusty and let you know what I'm currently listening to.

Currently listening to: Rent - La Vie Boheme "...bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens..."

What's Been Going On

2007-08-27T19:08:00.000-05:00

So I've taken another hiatus. Nothing seemed to be exciting enough to blog about, so I figured nothing was exciting enough for you to read. But I've had several questions about when I was going to get back to it. And so I'll give it a shot...again.

When we last left our hero, I'd just had an eye exam. Woo-hoo. Since then, here's what's been going on:

There was Easter. Stick, Hotass and the Dynamic Duo put on our Easter frocks and took a visit to the Artist's grandmothers for the day. We cruised across West Tennessee in the "Wadebago," complete with cooler of premixed bloody Marys (what Easter is complete without tomato juice and vodka?) listening to a totally sacriligious mix CD, featuring the greatest gospel hits of Mahalia Jackson, selections from the Sister Act soundtrack, the Gaither Vocal Band, and a little "Personal Jesus" from Depeche Mode. We did an Easter egg hunt in the backyard in a 21st century manner - tracking down the egg using a handheld GPS. That picture is from our funeral home fans that we made just for the occasion.

In May, I finished up the fundraising black-tie dinner for work. My picture made the Commercial Appeal. I was grinning ear to ear surrounded by a bevy of beautiful hula dancers. The next night, Stick, The Artist, Hotass and I went to the Dada Ball, where the dress code required us to dress as "your own absurdity." Our absurdity was coming as silent movie characters, each of us in black-and-white with faces painted white and a punch of red. The Artist was a bowery boy. Stick was a magician. Hotass was a cowboy, and I was the man about town. Everyone asked us all night long when we were going to perform. Little did they know, we always perform. Just see Hotass' drunk picture in the Commercial Appeal too.

In June, there was the Memphis Pride Festival. Which isn't as exciting as most cities, but there's hope. The highlight of the weekend is that Virginia came to visit, and I got to show her around the fair city.

In July, Stick and I took a jaunt down to New Orleans just before the Fourth of July. What a great time! Stick and I haven't spent much time together, so it was a good chance for us to get to know one another. Lots of drinking and commenting as pretty boys passed us by. "Yessss" if they were cute. "No" if they weren't. Yeah, we judged but it's what we do. One of the most amusing things of the weekend were the stories we composed for ourselves. Stick was a sociology professor at the University of Arkansas, and I was a manager at Home Depot. Well until I got tired of being a peon, and then I became a district manager. But it all fell apart when Stick felt the need to tell people about his thesis on the native tribes of the Amazon rain jungle.

Nothing much exciting happened in August. However, at the end of this month, at the end of this week, Hotass and I are going back to New Orleans for the biggest gay bacchanalia known to 21st Century man - Southern Decadence. Two years ago, when Katrina slammed into New Orleans just a few days before Decadence, it seemed the event might die out. But we queers are resilient folk. We're like Cher and cockroaches... you can't get rid of us.

And so that's pretty much it... well there are other things but I hope to get around to them eventually. I'm just happy to be back

The View from Here

2007-03-16T22:47:00.000-05:00

"You didn't tell me you were a visual cripple."

That's what my eye doctor said to me today.

The truth is I've always been a visual cripple. I've had bad eyesight since the day I was born. I've had glasses since I was 2 1/2 years old. How you keep glasses on a toddler is beyond the realm of my comprehension. I'm terribly near-sighted and even have a little bit of a lazy eye. I can't see three feet from my face without glasses. So my identity has always been associated with my glasses. They are as much as part of my face as your eyes and nose.

Dr. V was kidding. I'm not ready to be set up with a seeing-eye dog. At least not yet. And even when my right eye started turning toward my nose, I still wasn't eligible for a handicapped space at Target, even though Hotass thought I might be since I was wearing the recently-dilated wrap-around sunglasses.

Today was my first eye exam since I moved to Memphis. And, honestly, it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. The glasses I got four years ago are still fashionable (they just happen to be warped, bent and the hinges are loose as hell) and, according to Dr. V., my scrip hasn't changed much, but here's what I learned about my vision today:

First, my depth perception is a little off. While most people have the luxury of detecting distances with both eyes at the same time, I do not. I compensate by rapidly switching from one eye to the other. It's not a big problem, Dr. V. assures me. However, he thinks I have probably been missing something with 3D movies. Because I obviously see a lot of 3D movies.

Second, I have a mild color detection defect. I've seen more and more evidence that I might be a bit color blind, especially with trying to help the Artist pick out colors for their remodel. Dr. V again assures me it isn't a big deal, that I only have trouble with shades of green, brown and red. But come on. It is a big deal if I think I'm wearing brown pants and the rest of world sees green.

The good news is that glasses have come a long way since the ones I picked out my sophomore year in college -- the ones with blue frames and lenses the size of dinner plates. In 1992, they were fashionable. Looking at the pictures from 1992, it's painful.

I'm excited about the ones I picked out today. I've not been this excited about a new pair of glasses in a long time. So stay tuned...

Booger Drag

2007-03-08T19:22:00.000-06:00

So Jennifer tells me that she is bored with Britney and wants to know why I hadn't blogged since the 17th of February. Honestly, there hasn't been much to blog about. I've had a pretty boring routine.

However, since nothing spices things up around the house like a good drag queen, here ya go.

Who are those booger girls? Well, you see, the first Halloween that Hotass and I shared an apartment (the one we call the Villa on the Hilla) back in 1995, we decided to throw a gender-bender party. It was nothing more than an excuse for two gay boys to put on lipstick, but nonetheless, we thought we did a good job, given the limited knowledge and resources we had at our disposal.

So the girl with the lazy eye on the left, that's Nikki Chablis. She fancied herself as a modern-day Mata Hari, defecting from behind the Iron Curtain with Soviet secrets and fashion tips. But she looked more like she got tangled up in the curtain and took a terrible spill off the Berlin Wall.

The blushing bride on the right? That's Miss Havisham. Always a bridesmaid and never a bride until Halloween. That dress was so rotten, we feared for her life everytime she came near an open flame (and there was lots of flaming that night). Like poor Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, we expected her to catch on fire and run screaming from room to room. And never once spilling a drop of her cocktail.

And that big ol' mess in the middle? Well, she was trying to be Eddie from Absolutely Fabulous (she claimed that was "LaCroix, sweetie, LaCroix," around her neck, but we all knew it was thrift store). In the end, I think she just turned out looking like Bea Arthur's Maude.

So, Jennifer, is this better than Britney?

An Intervention With Britney Spears

2007-02-17T16:03:00.000-06:00

Britney,

I think it's time we had a little talk. I know you're a tad bit emotional these days. There's been the birth of yet another no-necked monster, and the divorce from K-Fed. Honestly, we were all hoping that break-up would happen soon enough, but sometimes you just have to let friends make their own mistakes. He was never right for you, and we all thought JT would have been a better choice.

But now we're really worried about you. What's with the shaved head? And are you in rehab or not? And who's taking care of the kids? Obviously not you.

Look at where you came from, Brit. You had it going on. Graduate of Star Search and The Mickey Mouse Club. It was a dream-come-true for every little girl who ever over-acted her way through Over the Rainbow in the school talent show.

Yeah, I admit it took me a while to take you seriously and get past the squeaky-clean, bubble-gum pop image you started out with. But it was catchy stuff, and you had some style that Christina didn't seem to have. Each single seemed a little better than the last. Oops I Did It Again. Toxic. I'm a Slave For You. Me Against the Music. And all the while you were kicking Christina Aguilera's dirrrrty ass. (You know, I used to call her Christina Got-bad-haira, but at least she's got hair now.)

You were sexy and hot. You had a fan base that was starting to extend beyond junior high girls and pedophiles, and through your association with Madonna, you could have continued to build your gay audience. Don't you see it? You were poised for greatness. Let's face it. Madonna isn't going to be around forever, and YOU could have been the one to take her place.

And you're blowing it. You have been given a great and powerful gift, and you're fucking it up.

You're having a full-on Michael Jackson meltdown, and if you keep hanging out with Lindsey Lohan and Paris Hilton and showing your snatch in the backseat of limos, you'll lose every bit of credibility you worked so hard for. And don't think it can't happen. Michael Jackson used to be the King of Pop, and look at him now. It's heart-breaking, isn't it? He couldn't sell a record now if he wanted to. Don't let that happen to you.

Every pop princess has a history of poor decisions. Mariah Carey and Glitter. Janet Jackson and a wardrobe malfunction. Some decisions can be quickly forgotten, but others simply won't be ignored. You still have time to get off this runaway train of self-destruction, and become the powerful pop diva you were born to be.

So here's what you need to do. First, put some pretty panties on. Then, get Madge on the phone. Apologize for whatever it is that you did that made her not your best friend anymore. Even if you didn't do anything, apologize. She's a reasonable woman and she'll hear you out.

Ask -- no, don't ask -- BEG for her help in turning your burning carnage of a life around and get your bald ass on the first plane for England. The next step seems like it should go without saying, but given your behavior lately, I'll say it - don't forget to pack the kids. I think Sean Preston and the other one (I can't remember his name and you probably can't either) will get along famously with Lola, Rocco and the adopted one.

And while the kids are playing together, you and Madonna can get caught up, do some yoga, talk about life as divorcee (she's been there a time or two), detox, let your hair grow back, and you can take advice from the one who first made it okay to royally fuck up, get some really bad press and still not alienate her fans.

If you do this right, you can look back in five years and see this period as just a big bump in the road. You'll have the respect of your friends (remember, Paris Hilton is not your friend), your family, and your fans -- and most importantly, you'll have the respect of your children.

You are somebody, and you are somebody's mama. It's time you started acting like it.

Sincerely,
Skipper

Show & Tail

2007-02-13T18:47:00.000-06:00

Just a quick note to let everyone know that, just in time for Valentine's Day, the Mocha Butt Fleshlight arrived. Or, as Dusty so eloquently stated in a roomful of friends, I'm now involved in an interracial relationship.

Fleshlights come highly recommended. One member of the Gaggle says it only takes two pumps, and another member reports having three different inserts. So with that kind of recommendation, how could I not take the plunge?

If you aren't familiar with the Fleshlight, the website says it's the #1 selling male sex toy in the world. By ordering through the website, you can choose your orifice (anal, oral, vaginal or nondescript in case you're especially shy or confused). You can choose from six different inserts - ribbed, super-ribbed, studded, standard, tight, ultra-tight. And, you can also choose your color - mocha, pink or clear.

I didn't order mine through Fleshlight.com, though. The Mocha Butt was on sale through J.T.'s Stockroom - a great site if you also happen to be in the market for a leather hood, PVC play sheets, a male chastity kit, or your very own set of stainless steel speculums.

Despite all that fun stuff (and the catalog that came in my package is not for the faint of heart), all I wanted was the Fleshlight. Oh, and the free gift which they are desperate to get rid of, because four of them were tossed into the box, along with the free sample of ID lubricant and the grape Tootsie Roll Pop. Yes, a grape Tootsie Roll Pop.

And all I can say is that the Tootsie Roll Pop lasted longer.

Preserving the Past

2007-02-07T19:30:00.000-06:00

So what does one do on a snow day? Well, besides watch Martha and eat grilled cheese sandwiches. One of the more productive things I found to do in the late afternoon was to scan pictures.

Think about it. Back before there were digital cameras, we actually had to take snapshots, and then take the rolls of film to the nearest drug store, wait almost a week for them to be developed, and then we stuck them in a photo album to drag out whenever we had guests. Or how about your third-grade class photo, the one where you were missing a front tooth and there was a gap in your bangs where you had tried to cut your hair yourself? Or your mom and dad's wedding picture?

Now we have boxes and envelopes and albums full of family photographs, and those hardly ever see the light of day now, because we're all enamored with the prospect of digital immediate gratification.

I have a box of photos going back to high school, and I also inherited a couple of the family photo albums a few years ago. The kind of albums where black-and-white photos are stuck to heavy black paper with photo corners. And it's scary that those photos, beside memories or the memories of relatives who were there, are the only proof those days even existed. If something happened to those pictures, they're gone forever.

So I spent the afternoon, scanning photographs if no other reason than to preserve them (assuming my computer doesn't crash again). And a quite of few of those photos deserve posts of their own.

So here you go. Skipper: The Early Years.

That's me in the sailor hat. And I wonder where my uniform fetish comes from.

Snow Day

2007-02-02T17:57:00.000-06:00

The snow day should have been yesterday. The forecast Wednesday night was for a wintry mix, which meant that Mother Nature was just going to take all the precipitation she had at her disposal, and hurl it in the general direction of Memphis, Tennessee.

And I was just as tickled as June Cleaver with a bucketful of buttholes (no, I don't know what that means, but it's a phrase that makes me smile) when I heard the "tick-tick-tick" of frozen rain and sleet hitting the roof Wednesday night, and I just knew there would indeed be a snow day on Thursday.

In fact, Hotass even made the customary run to the grocery store to pick up snow day staples - milk and bread. I'm not sure if this is a phenomenon in other parts of the country, but here in the South, at the very whisper of the word "snow," there is a mad dash to the nearest Kroger or Schnuck's to wipe them out of every gallon of milk and every loaf of bread they have in stock. We never have snow last more than a couple of days tops, but if there ever is a blizzard, can they really fend off starvation with just milk and bread? At any rate, Hotass and I were prepared for French toast.

When I woke up yesterday morning, I didn't even have to look outside to be disappointed. I could hear traffic on Park Avenue, and it was moving way too fast for there to be any amount of moisture on the streets. I pulled back the curtains and cursed.

Nothing. Not a flake. Not an icicle. Not even a coating of frost on the car windshield.

I kept vigil near weather.com all day, which promised white stuff and ice throughout the day. But still nothing at noon. Nothing in the afternoon. Nothing in the early evening. But about eight last night, flakes began to fall. And the kid in me made snow angels in my heart.

Snow in Memphis is a lot like men - you never when it's going to come, how long it's going to last, or how many inches you're going to get. So after being disappointed one to many times, I went to bed without high expectations.

I woke up before seven, and I listened carefully for the traffic on Park. Silence. Silence in the way that only snow can create. No swish of cars through puddles and slush. Just the muffled sounds of Memphis under a blanket.

A few minutes later, Hotass knocked on the door and told me that schools, the courts, and University of Memphis were closed for the day. I peeked through the curtains and I squealed.

And then I jumped out of bed.

I can't remember the last time I jumped out of bed before 8 a.m.

I fired off an e-mail to my staff and boss that the Memphis office would be closed today due to inclimate weather, and I had my coffee and French toast in my comfy chair.

Alas, today wasn't like the snow days of childhood. I had my work laptop and cell phone with me so I did manage to get a little bit of work done, but I still had The Today Show, Rachael Ray (honestly, I can't stand her), and Martha on in the background.

And, in true Memphis fashion, the snow melted by noon. But I had already forgiven Mother Nature for screwing me over the day before.

Happy Potter and the Sorcerer's Bone

2007-02-01T19:35:00.000-06:00

I have to remind myself to tread lightly when talking about how attractive the young man at the left is. He is, after all, only 17, and he is the young man that the rest of the world knows as Harry Potter.

All of England is abuzz about Daniel Radcliffe's decision to pose nearly naked for the promotional photos for a London play, Equus. In the play, he plays a young stablehand with an erotic fixation on horses who is undergoing an psychiatric evaluation after he blinds six horses with a hoof pick. And, aside from the dramatic integrity of the work, Radcliffe shows off his wee-wee in a scene of full frontal nudity.

Parents are outraged, and believe that he should remain clothed since he is a role model as Harry Potter. Apparently, he should never be allowed to step off his Nimbus 2000, and should forever be the boy wizard. Even when he's in his forties.

He says in an interview that he wants to shake up the public's perception of him. "Just shove me in a blender," he says.

So should he have steered clear of the role until he finished the Harry Potter series for the sake of the little English ankle-biters? Heck naw. Not that I've been a fan of the Harry Potter movies lately, but his decision to explore the talent more deeply has piqued my interest in the movies. So I might actually make a return to the theatres to see the next Harry Potter movie.

Which comes out this July, 10 days before his 18th birthday. And then I'll make some vile and nasty comment.

In the Past 31 Days...

2007-01-31T20:43:00.000-06:00

...I've had one cigarette, but that was within the first ten days of the month, and I've had one puff at two different times during the month. Is the ashtray licked? At least for the moment. I'll take one day at a time and start a new countdown tomorrow.

...I've seen Dreamgirls and Smokin' Aces. Dreamgirls was infinitely more fun, more attractive and less bloody. Plus the Dreamgirls soundtrack lends itself to a full month's worth of drag moments. You try singing "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going" and not breaking into a rendition worthy of the best drag queen you've ever seen.

...I've had two dates with two different guys. I saw Smokin' Aces with one, and went to Tunica with the other. One date was two years in the making, if you can believe that, and it was a gamble that paid off.

...the Pink Lady found out she is a candidate to be contestant on a certain reality show, and we helped her shoot her second application video and inappropriately destroy another German chocolate cake. The final cast will be selected by mid-February and we're hoping that she's a "loser."

...I've helped the Artist and the Chef begin their move back to Memphis, by helping move their Mardi Gras float of a bed and paint the bedroom Parisian taupe.

...I've helped Sweet Wade and assorted company fend off Bridezillas at a bridal show. Sweet Wade has started his own catering business, and catering to the whims of indecisive brides is part of the job. And serving up pomegranate fizz and macerated strawberries in balsamic vinegar with creme fraiche on a Sunday afternoon is part of my job as friend.

...I'm learning to dislike my job more and more with each passing day.

...I've decided to start yoga. In February.

2006: The Year In Review

2007-01-11T21:39:00.000-06:00

I figure I've got a small window of opportunity to discuss the year that was before it's passe.

So what was 2006 for me? Well, after all of my thinking and wishing and contemplating, I still don't know. Perhaps 2006 can go down as the Year of Uncertainty. It was a year of big changes. There was a new job. A new place to live. The splintering of the Gaggle, which was a lot more traumatic than you might expect.

In moments, it was an emotional year. I think I found myself crying more than the Chef ever did. I tried to laugh a lot but at the same time, there were several moments that the need to cry completely overtook me. Like the morning that HotAss and I had breakfast at Brother Juniper's, and somewhere in the middle of a San Diegan omelet, I cracked up for no good reason.

I cried a lot in 2006, and I felt sad a lot more often than I cried. Hotass could probably describe me as a perfect horror to live with because I cried or felt sad too much. Maybe I cried because they were gossiping. Maybe I cried because the elastic was shot in my pantyhose. Who knows? I cried at the drop of a hat in 2006.

But on a personal level, I can confess that most of the year was a time of a midlife crisis for me, although I'm too young for a midlife crisis and I'm too old for a quarter-life crisis. At any rate, it's a crisis of age that has not quite run its course.

For me,thirty-four is that age where you realize it's time you get your shit together (referred to as "fecal cohesion") but you're still drawn to the stupidity and the carefree times of your youth. There is an overwhelming part of me that longs for the La Vie Boheme - waiting tables at a non-chain restaurant (even though I would grow tired of working for tips in less than a day) and renting a house in Midtown, sparsely decorated with roadside sofas and Che Guevara prints (although I couldn't tell you what Che did, but they seem like they're the thing to have if you're a bohemian). But there is a part of me that wishes I had a carefree life. A big part of me.

Instead, I drive a Honda to my very respectable job that requires me to keep regular haircuts and a sensible wardrobe.

So if anything, 2006 might be the year of trying to find myself (again), and when 2007 rolled around, I realized I might still be missing. Only my face isn't on milk cartons.

So in 2006, I did NOT find myself. Nor did I lose myself anymore than I already was. In fact, I think I was probably right where I had been all along. Sitting here. Waiting. Wishing and still trying to figure out what the next step was.

Here's hoping that 2007 will be better.

It's Not About the Size; It's About the Fit.

2007-01-06T09:17:00.000-06:00

It's not normal to be this excited about underwear. Especially not underwear obviously designed for someone 15 years younger with a broomstick waist. But I'm here to tell you...I couldn't be more thrilled about my new GinchGonch pretty panties.

At first, I wasn't so sure I could be sold on the grown-up Underoos. After all, the first salesperson told Hotass, Artist and I that he has "a 28-inch waist and wears a medium." It was difficult for the three of us not to roll our eyes and call him a "bitch" under our breath. If this little waif of a boy wore a medium, there was certainly no chance for more...um...robust men, like myself.

But, Artist purchased a pair for his beloved. Hotass got a pair, and since they're just so darn fun (and since everyone else had some), I had to get mine. After much deliberation and consultation, and knowing that there is a strict policy about not returning underwear to the store, I opted for a large. Merry Christmas to me.

New Year's Eve found the three of us with our pants down, showing off our new special-occasion underwear.

And just for the record...I had to wash my delicates in hot water and dry on high heat twice to take up some of the slack.

Tell that bitch with the 28-inch waist to eat a freakin' biscuit and that a medium would have worked just fine.

Cold Turkey

2007-01-03T18:23:00.000-06:00

I am a smoker.

I have been for many, many years, and it is a label I have resisted just as long. But like the millions of other Americans who will be raving bitches by this weekend because they have sworn off nicotene on January 1, I too am quitting.

I started smoking when I was 18. It was the summer I was home between my freshman and sophomore years in college, and I was working a crappy job in my hometown. Just after school let out for the summer, some rednecks broke into the high school and tried to set fire to it. The library was mostly destroyed and the rest of the school had smoke and water damage. So my summer job was working on the clean-up crew, sponging down the walls and wiping soot off books and desks.

This was not a hard job. It was monotonous, spending a full 8 hours meticulously wiping down cinder block walls floor to ceiling. And one afternoon when I was leaving work, I was struck by an overwhelming craving for a cigarette. So I stopped at the QuikSak that afternoon and bought my very own pack. Marker Ultra Light 100s. Generic brand.

It must have been working around the smell of smoke and charred wood all day, because up to that point in my life, I had barely smoked. I had only experimented.

My father smoked. Salems. And I remember the comforting mix of cigarette smoke, coffee and aftershave. And I remember smoking butts from the ashtray just to know what it was like.

My cousin and I played a game that could be likened to hillbilly Ker-Plunk! He covered the mouth of a Mason jar with a couple of layers of paper towels and secured them to the jar with a rubber band. And then we placed a stack of quarters on the paper towels. We passed a Vantage cigarette back and forth, taking turns burning holes in the paper towels. Whoever caused the coins to fall through, lost. It was usually me, and I usually made him inhale for me since it made me hack.

The Christmas before I bought that pack of cigarettes, I was drinking fuzzy navels, and a high school girlfriend offered me one of her Virginia Slim menthols. And to this day, I still think a menthol cigarette tastes like you've lit up a stick of Doublemint gum.

Ever since that day in 1991, I've been a closet smoker. Admittedly, I've never been a heavy smoker. I can only remember a couple of times - in college - that I was a pack a day smoker. Usually I could make a pack last three or four days, especially the past couple of years.

Actually for the past several years, I've been like one of those politicians, publicly decrying homosexuality but sucking dick in every rest area along Interstate 40. I worked for one of the nation's largest opponents of smoking, but giving Big Tobacco my share of their fortune every three or four days. My excuse was "I've spent all day fighting cancer. Right now, I just want to make friends with it."

And I had probably been smoking in denial for several years. I didn't consider myself a smoker because I had rules. I didn't smoke at work. I didn't smoke in the house. I didn't smoke in my car. I rarely smoked before work. I didn't light up in restaurants unless I was with another smoker. I didn't really smoke around people who didn't smoke. Even in Memphis' bars, where the smoke is so thick you smell like a filthy ashtray when you leave, I tried to step outside when possible.

And most of the time I was okay with all that. I didn't go out of my mind with nicotene cravings. For most of the past eight or nine years, I had no problems with finishing a pack of cigarettes and going for a week or more (once I went six months) without smoking another. I could just quit.

But eventually the craving would return. And rather than resist the craving, I bargained with myself. "Hey, you finished that pack four days ago and you're just now wanting one? Treat yourself. It's the weekend."

Honestly, I enjoyed smoking. It was sort of relaxing, and it was a good excuse to step outside and collect your thoughts for a minute. But there are the obvious unfortunate side effects. I need to only think of my father who has emphysema and is permanently attached to an oxygen tank to remind me that smoking is not a good idea.

So I smoked my last cigarette shortly after midnight on January 1, 2007. And two days later, I'm still okay with it. I'll still have to contend with the real challenge which is a Saturday night at The Pumping Station with a cocktail in hand. That's when the urge hits hot and heavy, and my will power is the weakest.

Twenty-eight days is the magic number. Two down. Twenty-six to go.

I'm Coming Out - Part Deux

2007-01-02T19:54:00.000-06:00

Yeah. It was too good to last. So I've decided to come out of retirement. Or maybe it was a sabbatical. Or hiatus. Or whatever the fuck you wish to call it, but at any rate, I'm coming out. I want the world to know. Got to let it show.

I'm coming back. I have this funny feeling that there will be lots of things to talk about in coming months. It's a new year and I'm determined to make 2007 one of the best ever. This is the year I turn 35. I want to be a much more pleasant and contented person who makes use of the gifts and talents I've been given and who appreciates the many blessings in my life. I want to be happier. I want to be whole, and it's been a very long time since I've felt that way. But that is my new year's resolution.

To feel whole again.

So I'm going to write more. And paint more. And squeeze the good stuff out of life more. And laugh more, and live more. Who knew that it would be so much work to just be and then so much more work to just be happy?

In a moment of joking last week, Hotass, the Artist and I started rewriting the Bible, and I believe there is a verse (that's the new Memphis James Revised Edition in case you're wondering) that says, "You have been given a great and powerful gift. Don't fuck it up."

That's probably one of the lmost important lessons we're put here on earth to learn.

Time for a Change

2006-09-19T20:52:00.000-05:00

Once again it seems I've taken an extended leave of absence. And not for any good reason. Maybe I've been uninspired. Or maybe I've been busy. Or maybe this blogging thing has run its course.

It's been fun, and it was an all-consuming passion for a while. But for now, it's just a source of frustration, because I'd really like to post but the words just aren't coming like they used to. And, let's face it, Memphis is just too small of a town to talk about people like I want.

So I'm killing off Musings of a Man in Memphis. I'm going to slip quietly into blogging retirement, and maybe recharge the blogging batteries, be an ardent observer of culture and maybe in a little while, I'll resurrect myself in a new place with a new name and a no-holds-barred vengeance.

Or maybe I won't.

Who knows?

Who cares?

We just never know what the fuck life has in store, do we?

Be good, because I'll be keeping my eye on you.

Dude, You're Getting Screwed

2006-08-09T20:26:00.000-05:00

I noticed that Dell has changed its tagline to "Purely You." Given the frustration I've had for the past two weeks, I'd like to change it to "Purely the Worst Customer Service Experience You'll Ever Have."

And honestly it really has surprised me. Before two weeks ago, I thought Dell was a great product and I've been a faithful customer for four years, buying cameras, computers, PDAs and blah blah blah from Dell and never really having an ounce of trouble.

But the trouble started three weeks ago when my current computer took a nosedive. I hit the power button and it refused to boot Windows. And, not really knowing what I was doing, I fucked myself by reinstalling Windows, and it seems I lost everything. So I decided it was a sign to retire the four-year-old laptop and get a new one.

I placed an order online for a new laptop with all the bells & whistles, and got the email stating that my order had been acknowledged and that I would soon get another email saying that the order would be processed. The second email never arrived.

Two days went by, and when I called to check on it, I got tangled up with not one, not two, not three but four different customer service reps who told me in their broken English the order was lost, and that I would need to place the order again. Oh wait, no it isn't lost, the last one says. It just showed up in the system and my order would be shipped within three to five days.

Last Monday, I get an automated call from UPS saying that my package would be delivered that day by 7 p.m. The package never arrived. Using the tracking number only told me that "UPS has electronically received billing information from the shipper." That was the status for more than a week, and still no laptop.

Yesterday, I became an irate customer. The first customer service rep told me that UPS had an "address issue" and returned the package to Dell, but not to worry because my account would be credited, and that if I had further questions about the "address issue" I needed to contact UPS.

UPS told me that the package was supposed to be delivered on the day they called, but they couldn't explain why it wasn't or if delivery was even attempted. I called Dell again and the second customer service rep researched and told me that UPS never received the package from Dell, and then upon further research, told me that Dell had never actually shipped the package in the first place. But I shouldn't worry because my account would be credited within 10-15 days and I could place the order again.

But wait, I said, why wasn't I notified about all this? And why can't you just go find the damn package and ship it out to me again, and forget the whole crediting my account thing?

I'm sorry, sir. We can't do that.

Why not? Oh because the credit is already being processed and the computer is being placed into Dell's refurbished inventory.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but don't worry, I will personally make sure you are kept apprised of the status of the credit reversal.

And that's where I basically called her a liar because Dell had done such a lousy job at keeping me notified of the status thus far.

I'm sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Were you happy with the level of service I provided to you today?

The more I thought about it yesterday, the madder I got. So at Hotass' urging, I called Dell one more time last night and ended up talking to two more customer service reps who put me on hold for 2-3 minutes every other exchange so they could update my record.

Finally, Dell agreed to ship a replacement product (but I'm not sure how it could replace something I never had in the first place) and ship it overnight at their expense. Now why couldn't the first person I talked to done that, and saved me three hours of being on hold that I will never get back?

I should have my fancy-schmancy Dell Inspiron E1705 within 3-5 business days.

Assuming they don't screw me over again.

Is He Fuckable?

2006-08-07T21:51:00.000-05:00

So the starting point in determining a guy's FDM score is to decide whether or not he's fuckable. And while you might be able to answer the question with a simple yes or no, the 10-question quiz Hotass and I developed is designed to go beyond whether or not you'd merely have sex with him. The fuckable score represents the sexual chemistry, the level of physical attraction, and how much he turns you on.

Score one point for every yes. No's get zero points.

1. Would you lick his face?
2. Would you lick his ass?
3. Would you go to his place for a 2AM booty call?
4. Is this someone with whom you could act out one of your sexual fantasies?
5. Do you like the way he looks?
6. Would you blatantly flirt with him?
7. Do you or could you think about him while you're masturbating?
8. Does he exude an undeniable sexual energy?
9. Do you "go to your dirty place" when you think about him?
10. Would you fuck him more than once?
Bonus question: Is this your ideal fuckable person? Score two points if the answer is yes.

Remember this is just the first draft. I'm open to suggestions for questions. We're still working on the quizzes to determine dateable and marryable. Stay tuned.

Your Top 5 Friends

2006-08-03T16:23:00.000-05:00

Actually I guess the point of this meme is that I'm supposed to post it on my MySpace page, but I didn't want to. So I won't.

So in case you have a MySpace page and want to play along, here are the rules. Post the names of your top five friends, and answer the questions below. No fair changing your top five.

Number 1: Jon
Number 2: Sweet Wade
Number 3: Dusty
Number 4: Char
Number 5: Tuffy

Have you ever done anything illegal with 4? Actually, I have, but I won't tell.

Have you ever loved 5? Love might be a little strong, but I think about him a lot.

Have you ever thought about kissing 1? Yep.

Have you ever danced with 5? I don't remember it if we did.

Have you ever hugged number 2? Yes.

Have you ever gotten drunk/high with 5? Um, we drank vast quantities of alcohol.

Has 4 been to your house? Not the new one, but she's invited.

Have you ever played a sport with 3? Are you kidding?

Have you ever had an inside joke with number 2? He took to bed for three days.

Has any of your top 5 ever seen you naked? At least three of them

Have you ever taken a shower with anyone in your top 5? As a matter of fact I have.

Have you ever had a crush on number 2? No, not really.

Have you ever gone shopping with 1? He's a shopping machine.

Have you ever had a class with 3? Are you kidding? Neither one of us has class.

Have you ever seen 4 in a swimsuit? Nope

Have you ever ridden in a car with 1? Yep

Have you met 5's family? Nope

Have you ever eaten anything in front of 1? Yes, there were a couple of weekends where we had every meal together.

Have you ever hated 4? Not a chance.

Have you ever fought with number 2? No way.

Have you ever seen 3 do something embarassing? There was the time that he drank so much, he threw up. And there was the other time he drank so much, he threw up.

Has 2 ever given you a present? Yes, a gift card last year for my birthday.

Have you ever seen anyone in your top 5 cry? Nope.

Has anyone in your top 5 seen you cry? Of course. I cry every time we catch the last five minutes of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

Have you ever done something dangerous with number 4? Nope

Have you ever slept in the same bed as number 1? Yes, I don't like to talk about it, but he gets a kick out of embarrassing me by discussing it.

Have you had a crush on anyone on your top 5? Yep, I kinda sorta got one now.

Have you done anything illegal with number 2? I think it was a misdemeanor.

The Mating Scale

2006-07-19T22:01:00.000-05:00

This is what happens when Hotass and I have deep philosophical conversations, and drink too much in the process.

Last night, when I should have been packing, Hotass and I went out for dinner at Young Avenue Deli (which happens to be on Young Avenue in case you're wondering)and three pints of beer. Followed by a couple of more at The Pumping Station. It was almost sad that we were at the PS at 9:30 on a Tuesday night.

But over dinner, we started talking about guys, no one in particular, but just the guys in our pasts and presents -- what did or didn't work with in the relationships/affairs/flings, what was wrong with the guys, what was wrong with us.

For example, in our experience, why does a guy who looks good on paper - attractive, smart, good job, mentally stable, a perfect match in every way -- ignites no sexual chemistry? Or why do fuckbuddies remain only fuckbuddies and never graduate to boyfriends or husbands? What keeps an OIF (occasional intimate friend) from becoming man of your dreams?

I had told Hotass a while ago that I believe that every man is either fuckable, dateable or marryable. Usually he's only one. Sometimes he scores at least two of them, but if he's special, he scores on all three, and you've got a match on your hands.

Now of course it's hard to tell, based on appearance alone, if the guy standing at the bar is anything more than fuckable. But after a date or encounter, when you feel like you know him a little better, you subconsciously evaluate the guy to determine the next step - where does he fall in the FDM rating system?

Fuckable - would you have sex with him?

Dateable - we debated this point for a while, deciding what the criteria was for making someone dateable. We eventually agreed that dateable is determined by what you have in common, and basically if you enjoy his company outside the bedroom.

Marryable - is this guy the settling-down kind? Can you see yourself in a long-term relationship with him?

Somewhere in the middle of the third pint, we referred to someone we both know to illustrate our point.

Let's call him JD. Is he fuckable? Definitely. We'd both been there at separate times, and agreed that we would return if the opportunity presented itself. Is he dateable? Eh, maybe. He's a friendly guy, and might make for an enjoyable date or two. But after that, we didn't have much in common with him, and soon the well of things to talk about would run dry. Is he marryable? Probably not. He has a handful of children that live with him. He's definitely stable, but the idea of marrying into a ready-made family didn't intrigue either of us.

By the time we got to the Pumping Station, we had acknowledged the system has a couple of flaws. There were a few exceptions to the rule, such as the guys who scored three yes's on the FDM scale, but still it never progressed the way we wanted. That's when we introduced the Reality Factor.

He's perfect in every way - the sex is great, you like spending time with him, and you can almost see yourself watering roses behind a white-picket fence while he writes the check for the shared mortgage on the front porch swing. The reality is that he lives six hours away, or he's not ready for the mortgage, or he's got a hairy mole on his back that you just can't quite stop thinking about. The Reality Factor puts FDM in perspective.

Then it got complicated. Detailed calculations on cocktail napkins. Formulas, averages and fractions. And since neither one of us is a math whiz and had a few by this point, multiplying complex fractions was a serious problem. But the result was a complex scoring system: grade a man on a 10-point scale for fuckabilty, dateability and marryability, add the scores together, divide by the reality factor, and "x" equals the probability of a love connection.

Leaving nothing to chance, by the time we left, we had derived a 10-question quiz to determine the F score, and planned for similar questionnaires to get the D and M scores.

Obviously, we have too much time on our hands. If only we had devoted those brain cells to solving the crisis in the Middle East, or coming up with alternative forms of energy.

But when you bring your spreadsheet and calculator on your next date, you'll thank us.

Just Catching Up

2006-07-16T19:34:00.000-05:00

I know I've been MIA lately but, apparently, I was so stunned by Dick McKay that I lapsed into a month-long coma. I just haven't felt there was much that was blog-worthy lately, hence the absence. But when I think about it, there has been quite a bit going on.

First, there's the new job. It's been a little more of a challenge than I thought it was going to be. I went from working for one of the largest nonprofit organizations in the country, to a two-and-a-half-person local staff. I went from battling cancer to protecting an organ that not many people think about (but you should!) And by the way, who knew that the title of this post would allude to the job that I would interview for a week later?

In my old job, there was somebody for every function, and I admit that I was spoiled. Now I feel like chief cook and bottlewasher. Plus, I kind of feel like I've been picked up by the seat of the pants and tossed right into it. There hasn't been a whole lot of formal training, and not a whole lot of resources to turn to. But I keep telling myself that this is what I wanted: more challenge, more autonomy, a good career move. So I've been pretty overwhelmed in the adjustment, and have doubted that I made the right move, but all in all, this will work out. It's good experience, right?

And then there's the house. No, I still haven't moved in yet, but Hotass has. I've been packing the last two days in preparation for the move this coming weekend. And like last year's move, and every move before that, this too is a source of great anxiety. I don't know if it's common among everyone else, but every time I change residences, I nearly have a complete and total come-apart. I hate the idea of being unsettled even if for a day, and the prospect of putting my life in boxes strikes sheer terror in my heart.

Okay so maybe "terror" is a bit dramatic, but I probably could stand a bit of therapy to help me with my moving issues.

The renovations so far... we've painted with the help of the Gaggle. Brown Teepee in the living room and dining room. Porpoise in the bathroom. Sparrow in Hotass' bedroom. Subtle Touch in the hallway. The first color that went up in my bedroom was Ocean View, but it turned out a little too blue and juvenile for my taste; the color seemed more appropriate for a five-year-old boy who liked to play with trains. So I repainted it a pleasant grayish-blue appropriately named Skipper.

We've ripped out all the carpet and sold it on Craigslist, and the hardwood floors are in remarkably good condition. We've single-handedly remodeled the bathroom. A new vanity light. Installed an electrical outlet. A new medicine cabinet. New light switches (with a dimmer of course). New vent fan. Ripped out the old vanity and installed a pedestal sink. We've replaced the stove, the washer, and the dryer, and, painting a picture of pure white trash, the old ones are sitting on the patio. If you want to take them off our hands, let me now. And I think we've done a fine job with the work so far; not bad for two queer boys who have never done this sort of thing before.

I'd like to propose that our new neighborhood become Memphis' new gay ghetto because don't you think there's something homoerotic about living in a gayborhood called Sherwood Forest? What gay man wouldn't want to call Wil Scarlet Road, Maid Marian Lane or Robin Hood Road home? Of course, we need to get the appliances off the patio before any self-respecting gay man would want to call us neighbors.

And there's been a few other things going on. There was the boy that came to visit from Connecticut, a torrid, all-consuming infatuation until there was the realization that he was there and I am here. And let's face it. I consider anything outside of Midtown a long-distance relationship. He's a wonderful person, but then there's the reality of the situation. A reality that I allowed myself to ignore for a few weeks, but it was a nice few weeks, allowing myself to get caught up in the blush of a crush.

The Dynamic Duo moved to Nashville last weekend, and left a pretty big void here in Memphis. Granted they're only three hours away, and while I was in Nashville this week for work, I stayed overnight with them, but dammit, I'm gonna miss those boys.

So, um, what else? Oh, I saw Pirates of the Caribbean today, after two Bloody Mary's and a crab-Swiss-spinach omelet at Bayou Bar & Grill. The omelet was good and I was unimpressed with the movie. And I'm really kinda diggin' Christina Aguilera's new song, and I'll give it my vote as the Summer Song of 2006. And I don't care how wrong it is, but I really feel sorry for how white-trash Britney Spears has become. I just want Madonna to take her aside and give her a good talking-to. And I'm really sorta worried about this thing in the Middle East.

So that's what's been going on with me. What's been going on with you?

ohmygod

2006-06-16T20:02:00.000-05:00

Two of the best places in the world to boywatch are Home Depot and the airport. And if there are two places I've been spending a lot of time lately, it's Home Depot and the airport.

With the traveling this week and the home remodeling, Hotass and I have had a lot of opportunity to spot some really fine specimens of eye candy. And we're usually on the phone with each other.

In the middle of shopping for medicine cabinets or arranging for him to pick me up at the airport, the conversation stops mid-sentence.

"I'll just give you a call when my plane...ohmygod."

"What is it?" But we already know what it is. It's a hairy. brawny, rugged, masculine handsome man. We don't even ask for further details. God walks on by and the conversation picks up where we left off.

Earlier this week, I spotted Dick McKay on Queerclick. Consider this post my own little "ohmygod" from me to you.

So, um, what were you saying?

Leavin' on a Jet Plane

2006-06-15T17:42:00.000-05:00

Normally these musings are from a man in Memphis, but for the first time ever (and probably the last time), these are musings from a man in Detroit.

At least I think it's Detroit. It's supposed to be Detroit, but it could very easily be an airport in Des Moines or Duluth. I'm only in the first hour of a three-hour layover on my way home, and I just really want to get back to Memphis.

I've spent the week in Connecticut. At least I think it was Connecticut. There wasn't much indication that I was in a place with any type of personality. It looked fairly scenic through the window of the car that picked me at the airport, and I could almost kinda sorta see the river from my hotel room.

This was the first trip with my new job. I started a week ago today, and I've been at a staff conference since Monday, trying not to look bewildered and desperately trying to fake competence. People are swift to judge the new guy and I didn't want to look like a dumbass. It was a good chance to meet the other folks I'll be working with from around the country, but I can't tell you how many times I had to whisper to the person sitting next to me, "What the hell does that mean?"

I can tell you that this new organization is a refreshing change from my last one. Our accommodations? A casino, but it was quite plush. Our meals? Divine and on the company dime, much better than the usual penny-pinching chicken and vegetable conference fare. Our alcohol? Well, I can at least say, that everyone I told that I was coming to work for this organization asked if I could still drink. That answer is a resounding yes. And most of this week's booze was on someone else's tab. That's just fantastic. I don't care who you are.

On the flip side of things, there were way too many Jewish grandmothers playing the slot machines. I think there was almost a geriatric revolt when our group was escorted to the front of the buffet line. My Southern ears didn't adapt well to the Midwestern and Northeastern whang of my new coworkers. I'm craving a redneck drawl, and being around mostly straight people all week, I'd love to just have a total "nell spell" and squeal at the top of my lungs. Just to get it out of my system.

I do feel like I haven't seen the sun all week, except through a window. And I'm pretty protective of my me-time and I get downright exhausted when I don't have recharging time. Trying to impress, soaking in new information and falling into bed late at night only to do it all over again early the next day has really taken a toll on my internal batteries.

So yeah -- a new job, a new house, big changes in the Gaggle (not only has Tman left but the Dynamic Duo are moving away too), traveling, I just don't feel like I've had much downtime lately, and I'm just worn the fuck out.

Two Queers and a Hammer

2006-06-06T19:07:00.000-05:00

So now we've done it. Hotass and I have become homeowners.

Two months ago, I was content to live in my apartment, gladly paying rent for the convenience and peace of mind knowing that if something broke, it wasn't my problem. When it came to my home, I was a little commitment-phobic. Yes, I was aware of all the pro's of owning a home. The tax breaks. The investment. The security. The freedom. But the possibility of being dragged into a money pit and giving up my weekends for yardwork scared the daylights out of me, so I considered myself a terminal renter.

But then Tman decided to sell his house and move, and Hotass needed a roof over his head. And there was that nagging thought that I should probably grow up and get over my fears. And so when he proposed that we go in together and put down some roots, I agreed.

We found the perfect starter house, even if it was the first and only one we looked at. Affordable, but yet a place we can get a decent return on our investment in a couple of years. In a semi-quiet older neighborhood. Still inside the 240 Loop and close enough to Midtown that I don't get panicky. And yeah, there are upgrades and remodeling that needs to be done, but we have delusions that we can do the work ourselves.

The real estate agent handed us the keys to our new home yesterday afternoon, and by the time I got there after work, Hotass had already trimmed a single bush by the driveway and ripped out the bathroom medicine cabinet, leaving a gaping nasty hole in the bathroom wall. He said he needed some immediate gratification.

Last night we made our first trip to Lowe's as naive and eager do-it-yourselfers. Two and a half hours later, we left with a new pedestal sink, a vanity light, a faucet kit, wallpaper stripper, a bathroom vent fan, paint chips, and a lawnmower.

After I scored the seashell wallpaper in the bathroom, we stood around looking at what we could do next. We spied the tiled-in soap dish, toothbrush holder and towel rack. We might have watched too much HGTV.

"How do you feel about those?"

"I hate 'em."

Pieces of ceramic tile shattered and we started chiseling away at the remainder with a hammer and screwdriver, careful to not chip the surrounding tile and debating what we were going to put in the empty spaces and what color the wall would end up.

Tomorrow is my only day off before I start my new job on Thursday, and we'll spend the day, ripping out the vanity and installing the new sink and vanity light. This weekend, we're organizing a paint party for the rest of the house.

This home-ownership thing is going to be a blast. Stay tuned for photos and our progress.

A Cure for the Summertime Blues

2006-06-01T20:46:00.000-05:00

It's not even officially summer, but already Spider has noted that several bloggers have the summertime blues. To cure the early summer blues, he's offered up a meme to break the blahs.

Here's how it works: Answer all of the original 20 questions (10 from Spider, 5 from Brad and 5 from me) that I have posted here, and then add five of your own.

Best summer: Maybe the summer of '95 - the first summer out on my own that finished with a road trip to New Orleans for Southern Decadence. That picture was made just before we got in the car to leave. Who were those boys? Oh, and the summer of '05 was pretty damn good too.

Best car I've ever owned: A 1985 Nissan 200SX

Best cruising song: "Where the Streets Have No Name", U2.

Favorite meal: Meatloaf and mashed potatoes

Favorite season: Fall

Proudest accomplishment: Landing the job that I start next week.

Best Christmas gift: Tickle-Me Elmo. No, seriously.

Most embarrassing moment: Taking a spill on the stairs at Backstreet.

Best slow dance song: "At Last," Etta James

Best night: The best night in recent memory is the night when the Gaggle went down to Beale Street.

These are the five that Brad added:
Favorite pet: Baxter, the stray daschund mutt I carried home, only to have to put him to sleep a week later because he was infested with worms.

Favorite crush: Mickey Brown. He sat across from me in high school Spanish class and would pretend to yawn to get me to yawn too. And he was just so damn cute.

Best vacation: The Outer Banks, 2001 and 2002.

Best relationship: Despite all of the heartache and drama, when my last relationship was good, it was great. When it was bad, it was dreadful.

Favorite dessert: Tiramisu. Or apple pie.

My questions
Favorite smell that reminds you of summer : Honeysuckle

Favorite song that reminds you of your first love: "Wicked Game" - Chris Isaak

Most memorable summer fling: Kevin Sherrill. Even though we had known each other since freshman orientation, I had no idea he was gay until we graduated. We first hooked up at my best friend's graduation party, and then again a week or two later. I remember talking to him on the phone during the series finale of "Melrose Place." The next week, he went to New York to make it big on Broadway, and I never heard from him again.

Best way to beat the heat: Taking a cool shower, and taking a nap in the coldest, darkest room in the house.

Favorite summer drink: Gin & tonic

A Bang-Up Weekend

2006-05-30T12:57:00.000-05:00

Normally getting smashed involves copious amounts of alcohol. But that wasn't the case Friday afternoon, when a beige Mercedes ran a red light and started my weekend with a bang.

Truvy the CR-V wasn't driveable, so she spent the weekend in a tow lot, and I spent the weekend being picked up and dropped off by Hotass, until I could get a rental car today, a super-stylish and ultra-fashionable Toyota Corolla.

Aside from the inconvenience of not having a car and being pissed off because I had just filled up with gas ($40 wasted) and given Truvy her first bath of summer, it was a good weekend.

Most of the Gaggle had gone to more tropical, or at least sexier, settings: JonJon, Sweet Wade, Dusty and Bobo went to Pensacola. Tman went to IML in Chicago. The Chef and the Artist flew out Sunday morning for a week in Key West.

Hotass' "friend" from Birmingham, who the Gaggle has named BamaNut, and his best friend came to town Saturday. We had lunch at Huey's and then the four of us met the Dynamic Duo for an X-men matinee and Central BBQ before they went home to finish packing and haggle with the airline for changing their flight. Our schedules revolve around our feeding times.

After a early evening nap, the four of us started at the Pumping Station, there only long enough to have one drink and make an appearance, and then went to Backstreet.

There are a lot of reasons I can't go to Backstreet much. One, the recovery time from dancing til 3 in the morning is not what it used to be. Two, there are popped collars on Polo shirts everywhere, and I hope this is a trend that dies a quick and painful death. Three, I'm scared to death of the stairs after taking a tumble down them once before.

The Sunday morning recovery was just what I had expected: exhausted and a little hungover. And I guess that's why BamaNut asked me if I was always that grumpy on Sunday mornings. We hit a couple of Memorial Day cookouts, but I don't think any of us were quite feeling up to it. By five, I was ready for another nap.

The boys came over later in the evening, armed with pizza and cookies, and we played poker til after midnight.

BamaNut and Chris went back to Birmingham Monday morning, and I spent the day doing laundry and watching a "Flip That House" marathon on TLC with Hotass.

And the weekend ended like it began. BamaNut had just gotten back to Birmingham when a lady ran a red light and ripped off his front bumper.

Hope you had a smashing weekend too.

Let Them Eat Cake

2006-05-22T20:44:00.000-05:00

While another season of Desperate Housewives ended, the Gaggle closed a chapter as well.

In case you're curious about who got killed on The Gaggle's season finale, it was the caramel cake from the Commissary.

It wasn't the first cake to disappear from the streets of Memphis in the past year and a half. There was an angel-food cake in the shape of a sand castle. Half of a German-chocolate cake. I distinctly remember a half-dozen birthday cakes, a couple of gallons of ice cream, and easily two trifles.

But Sunday night's caramel cake wasn't just killed. It was slaughtered. Perhaps some of the worst carnage we've ever left in our path.

At least the going-away cake on Friday was given the dignity of being sliced and served.

T-man has taken a job in Austin, and in true Gaggle fashion, we threw him a cowboy sendoff. Complete with hay bales, margarita punch, a beer keg, a cowboy cake and linedancing lessons. I really wanted pony rides and a mechanical bull too, but that never came to pass.

Not only did we wish "happy trails" to a good and always-hospitable friend, but it was a good-bye to the house, the site of many Gaggle gatherings and pool parties. And we definitely haven't had enough warm days in Memphis yet this year to warrant jumping in the pool.
On Sunday, we gathered for the last time in the Homo-comb Hideout to watch tv, eat and close out a season. With T-man's move West and the selling of the house, we're left with a few cliffhangers.

Can the Gaggle ever replace the irreplaceable T-man? What will happen to poor Hotass now that's he's homeless? Are Skipper & Hotass ready to sign on for another season of Laverne & Shirley? What will happen with Skipper's new job? Will the Dynamic Duo give up Memphis for the Conch Republic? Where did that Dale Evans-wannabe-in-the-powder-blue-cowboy-hat get her outfit?

And more importantly, given their appetite for cake, will the Gaggle let Jenny Craig join the group?

Fortunately, no one has to wonder through a summer hiatus.

Say Good Night, Grace

2006-05-18T20:57:00.000-05:00

I actually missed the series finale of Will & Grace. And I shouldn't have; I should have been there in that Manhattan apartment. But instead, I was standing in line at Wal-Mart to pay for a six pack and a 30-piece Western playset, complete with cowboys, Indians and a covered wagon, but that's another story.

Earlier today, Hotass and I talked about watching it, since we were there in the beginning, taping every single episode. But we both agreed that we had lost touch with Will, Grace, Jack and Karen over the years, and if we felt the need to get caught up, we could pick up the DVD tomorrow.

About the time that Will and Grace debuted, I met my Grace, an always-nutty, frequently-impractical, sometimes redhead expertly played against my always-practical, frequently-cynical, and only-once-platinum blonde Will. And we had standing Thursday night dates to drink gallons of wine and watch our imagined lives played out.

She is the only person in the world who, in a game of Password, will respond to "jaunty" with "scarf." She knows why me being terribly effusive for cheese bread is funny. She's witnessed drunken emotional purges on stormy North Carolina beaches. I know that on vacations she doesn't want to go to historic landmarks, because it's just someplace where stuff used to happen.

But the show jumped the shark at some point. Maybe when Will and Grace decided to have a baby. Maybe our lives didn't closely resemble what we saw anymore. Or maybe our lives just got too complicated for TV. Whatever the reason, we lost interest.

I hadn't watched since Karen scattered Stan's ashes from the boat. So I didn't feel so guilty about missing the final episode.

When I got home from Wal-Mart, I had this e-mail from Grace.

Tonight is it. The last night we'll be together, me with my flaming red hair, cooky wardrobe and curiously large baby belly, with a dork of an exhusband who looks remarkably like that jazz singer. You with your quips, smarts, savvy wardrobe and expensive shoes. Your plethora of hair care items will sit alone in the bathroom that the rest of the world has only seen once. I'm sorry to have had relations with your older brother, even though Sam was a hottie. I'm sorry we fought and had to make up in a vomit-soaked inflated castle at a child's birthday party. I'll always remember our talks, our jaunts, our watching gay porn until the wee hours of the morning; our shared coffee with the loudmouth, brash drunk, and the loudmouth brash actor/dancer/nurse/tvexec/host. You are my friend, my love, my split apart, my psychic word game partner, my right arm, the right side of my brain and my rock. I'll always love you.

Now I feel guilty about missing it, but Grace, I'll see you July 1.

Living on the Fault Line

2006-05-04T21:00:00.000-05:00

"The probability of magnitude 6.0 or greater in the near future is considered significant; a 90% chance of such an earthquake by the year 2040 has been given."

Within the next 34 years, assuming I still live in Memphis, I have a 90 percent chance of being caught in a devastating earthquake. Surprisingly, my chances of being shot on Sam Cooper Boulevard or in Orange Mound are considerably less.

The Big One could happen tomorrow. And it's not like a tornado-spawning thunderstorm or a hurricane; you can't tune in to The Weather Channel and find out it's headed right for you. All you can do is duck and cover when the floor starts to wobble.

It's not like we live in fear, but everyone knows we're living on shaky ground.

Almost everyone I know seems to be experiencing their own personal little earthquakes. It seems like the tremors have already started. Just strange little signs and major life changes.

Tuesday morning, after the receptionist at work greeted me with a good morning, she asked if I felt like there was some weird vibe in the air.

"Everyone seems so on edge, and I don't like it."

I agreed with her.

The Gay Questionnaire

2006-05-02T21:15:00.000-05:00

I saw this on Spider's blog, and thought I'd play along too.

1. How old were you when you knew you were gay? Probably around 11 or 12 is when it first dawned on me. About the time puberty struck, and I realized I was only jerking off to the guys in the Hustler magazines.

2. Have you ever had sex with the opposite sex? Not intercourse

3. Who was the first person you came out to? My best girl friend in high school - Kym Bilbrey. After I went to college, she heard a few rumors in the hometown, and she suspected that I was guilty by association. So I lied and came out as a bisexual. The faster the questions came about that, the harder it became to keep up with the lies. So I went ahead and told her I was gay

4. Are you out to your family? Nope

5. Do you want children? Probably not

6. Do you have more gay friends or straight friends? As friends go, I have definitely more of the gay persuasion

7. Were you out in school? Definitely not in high school, and not for the first few years in college. I had just started inching out of the closet when I graduated.

8. Is your best friend the same sex as you? Yes

9. If your best friend is the same sex, have you ever had sex with them? No

10. Have you ever done crystal meth? No

11. Have you ever been in a sling? Alas, no.

12. Have you ever done a 3-way? Um, yeah.

13. Have you ever dressed in drag? Do your homework.

14. Would you date a drag queen? Probably not again.

15. Are you a top/bottom or truly versatile? I'm about 20:80 on the top:bottom ratio. And according to the Gaggle, the real lyrics to Pink's song are, "God is a DJ. James is a bottom." It's kind of hard to deny that kind of poetry.

16. Have you seen an uncircumcised penis? My first one was uncircumsised.

17. Have you had sex with someone of a different ethnicity? Yes.

18. Have you ever barebacked? Yes

19. How many Cher CDs do you own? Three - Believe, Cher's Greatest Hits, and The Very Best of Cher. And I also have her picture stuck in the passenger side visor mirror.

20. Name of your first love? Johnai Einert

21. Do you still talk to them? Nope.

22. Does size matter? As Clinton and Stacy say on What Not to Wear, it's not about the size. It's about the fit.

23. Biggest turn on? Goatees, hairy chests, young cubbish guys with neat beards, jockstraps, beefy arms

24. Biggest turn off? Pretense. Materialism. Bushy balls.

25. Ever been harassed due to you orientation? Yeah

26. Worst gay stereotype that applies to you? Likes dance music and showtunes. Idolizes Diana Ross and Madonna. Dreams about Martha Stewart.

27. Ever been to a pride rally? Yes.

28. Would you marry if you could? Yes.

29. Would you rather be rich and smart or young and beautiful? Rich and smart.

30. Do you sculpt your eyebrows? My fear is I'd end up looking like Liza Minelli.

31. Do you trim your body hair? Nope. I gave it all up years ago, except the manscaping on the south lawn.

32. Ever had sex with more than one person in a day? In a 24-hour period, yes.

33. Ever been to an orgy? Yep.

34. Have you dated your best friends ex? An ex-boyfriend? No. An ex-trick or ex-affair? Yes.

35. Would you vote for Hillary Clinton if she ran for president? Depends on what the options are.

36. Do you want monogamy in your relationships? I think I do.

37. Do you believe in true love? Absolutely.

38. Do you have any tattoos? Yes, look right there above the crack of my ass.

39. Do you have any piercings? I was a total dork in 1991, and I got my ear pierced at the jewelry counter at Wal-Mart. And I did it because everyone else did it. I haven't worn an earring in it a long time and it's grown up mostly. There is still a hole in my left ear I see every morning to remind me.

40. Would you date a smoker? Yes.

41. Do you get HIV tests every 6 months? At least once a year.

42. Do you know anyone who has died from H.I.V.? Not really.

43. Do you know what Stonewall was? Yes.

44. Strangest place you have had sex? In the middle of a lake suspended by foam noodles.

45. Strangest place you've woken up? Under a pine tree.

46. Are your best years behind or in front of you? Please God, let them be in front of me.

47. Favorite porn movie? Men's Room: Gale Force - Titan

48. Are you in love now? No

49. Ever been in love with a straight guy/girl? Yes.

50. Did you ever have sex with them? No

51. Have you ever been to a nude beach? No.

52. Have you ever been to a bath house? Yes

53. Ever had sex in public? Yes

54. Have you ever been/stayed in a relationship for Money or Security, instead of Love and Friendship? Hell no

55. Have you ever keyed someone's car? I think maybe I did, but I distinctly spraying the doorhandle with copious amounts of pepper spray.

56. Have you ever fantasized killing someone not famous? Yep

57. Have you ever witnessed someone dying? No

58. Have you ever contemplated suicide? Yes

59. Are you glad you're still here? Absolutely. That which does not kill us makes us stronger.

Finishing Up the Househusband's Interview

2006-04-30T09:19:00.000-05:00

2. What is the sexiest thing about being a gay man? And why?
The answer to this question goes hand-in-hand with the answer to the next. The sexiest thing about being a gay man is exuding confidence, and feeling immune to judgement. It's not a confidence that comes from knowing you're the best looking man in the room. It's the confidence that comes from not caring whether you are or not.

3. What is the ugliest thing about being a gay man? And why?
I'm guilty of it, and Hotass and I even joke about it. We judge. It's what we do. As gay men, we've fought most of our lives for some degree of acceptance, but yet the ugliest characteristic of being a gay man is our/my propensity to meet, greet and pass judgement.

It happens every Friday and Saturday night at the Pumping Station. We look around and we size up everyone in sight, mentally taking note of flaws and bad shoes. And it's ugly because we sure don't want that judgement cast back upon us.

4. As an artist you paint what is in your mind's eye. If you were blind, what would you paint and what would guide you?
If I had been blind since birth and had never seen the beauty (and the ugliness) of the world, I would paint how I imagine things to be. I think it would be pretty liberating to paint what you feel, instead of what you see, and not feel bound by conventional concepts of perspective, color and form. How does sunlight feel, and how do you represent that with color and texture?

If I had witnessed the world and then became blind, I think that would be more frustrating to me, because I would want the finished piece to accurately reflect what I saw in my memory. Not having the benefit of sight, how would I know when I was finished?

5. Being a "spiritualist", what guides you down your path to enlightenment?
You might not think of Oprah as a spiritual leader, but what guides me is something I heard her say or read in O magazine. Live your best life. And to me that means I ask myself if I am truly enjoying my life. Am I being the best person I can be? Have I been kind to others and to myself? Have I appreciated and been grateful for the gifts I have? And can I do better tomorrow?

And now the rules:The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Martha and Me

2006-04-26T17:58:00.000-05:00

Last night I dreamed about Martha Stewart and me just hanging out in her kitchen, baking cookies.

It wasn't the first time we had met. We both remembered our first meeting a few years ago. Hotass had given me a visit with Martha shortly after he and I met in Nashville, and I got to hang out with her then, baking cookies. But I was all nervous and stuff, and she got frustrated with me, because I was making a mess with the frosting. She apologized to me last night. Prison has a way of changing a person, she said, but she still didn't think I had given the frosting job 100 percent.

Her demeanor seemed rushed and aloof, but we still talked openly and honestly about the meaning of life, while she broke eggs and mixed cookie dough. I asked her how she managed to stay cold and collected, and make everything so perfectly.

"Cold?" she asked. "You think I'm cold?"

"No, I meant cool. You actually seem very warm and inviting on your new show. But you always seem to have it together."

"Didn't you see me fall apart when I got sent to prison?"

And then she asked me to get her a platter for the cookies, the one on the bottom shelf. It was a Christmas platter with red poinsettias on it.

"Martha, are you sure you want to use this one? It's ugly."

"Yes, I'm sure. The lady we're giving these to... well, I don't like her very much."

And then I woke up.

If You Have a Liver to Spare...

2006-04-22T01:17:00.000-05:00

Then there's a trash can on Beale Street that will gladly take your your spare organs. Just slide it right there in the deposit box.

Tonight, we went to Pat O'Brien's, and we sang along to the dueling pianos in the bar. We sang along, at special request from our table, to "Dancing Queen." Actually we requested "Mamma Mia" but apparently that was outside their repertoire. "Dancing Queen" was as good as it got.

And the pianists never played the gospel hymn "Just As I Am" leading into the gay anthem, "I Am What I Am." We certainly asked and it should have been an easy transition to make, but our pianists stuck to the mainstays like "Uptown Girl," The Rose" and "Rocky Top."

Then, for our stumble down Beale Street, Hotass bought a dive bucket from Silky O'Sullivan's. And while we're still not quite sure what the ingredients are, we're fairly certain the drink in the orange gallon bucket is made up mostly of beer (althought all of the other ingredients are in question), and more than five straws. The straight out-of-town drunk women over 40 are always eager to know what's in the bucket and where you got it.

"She's an ex-cop and her ex-husband is a state trooper in Illinois."

"How do you know that?"

"That's what her mother said," T-man said, jerking his head in the direction of the woman with the camera.

And if you call out "Lisa!" to a pack of hot slutty girls, one of them is bound to turn around. As that's what happened with the girls out on the bachelorette party. At least the bride pretended to be Lisa as Jerry gnawed a peppermint LifeSaver from her tank top.

Sunday Bloody Sunday 2006

2006-04-17T18:51:00.000-05:00

As a kid, the most exciting thing about Easter was the stuff in the basket. Granted, most of the goodies were things that I wouldn't dare eat. I wasn't a fan of hard-boiled eggs, or the jellybeans, or even Peeps. Most of the time I could only bring myself to eat the sugary shell, picking around the marshmallow fluff. Even after I gnawed the ears off the chocolate bunnies, I lost interest quickly.

I was more interested in the stuff with the longer shelf life (although God knows that Peeps were so full of artificial preservatives they would stick around until Christ's second coming.) I wanted the goods - the coloring books, the fresh pack of Crayola 64, the Silly Putty, the fuzzy rabbit that played "Frere Jacques" when I turned the key sticking out of its butt. Oh, and don't forget about the new Easter outfit - something cute, something pastel, something to get one good wear out of before I outgrew it.

Who says childhood was a simpler time? As an adult, I only want one thing for Easter: a good bloody mary.

I lamented to the Artist on Saturday as we were playing voice mail tag that I wished the Gaggle had planned some Easter Sunday festivities so that we could enjoy some quality time together. Ok, ok, it was all a guise to drink bloody marys. The Artist called back with a message that he and the Chef would be happy to pull something together for the afternoon, and that I should rest assured there would be bloody marys.

Insert unbridled glee here.

However, there were a few tense moments when I retrieved another voice mail message from the Artist saying that he had remembered to pick up all of the fixin's for bloody marys, but he had forgotten the vodka. How does one forget the vodka??

I glanced at the clock. It was 11:00 p.m., and as mandated by Tennessee state law, all liquor stores in Memphis had just closed til Monday. I told Hotass I'd squeeze potatoes if I had to.

Only an Easter miracle could save us now.

But like the miracle of loaves and fishes, everyone scraped together a few partial bottles of rotgut and Absolut managed to produce enough bloody marys to get the Gaggle through the afternoon and into the evening.

So instead of hiding eggs or celebrating Resurrection, we ate. Big surprise. There's always food involved. Like the Chef's homemade upright bunny cake with the sky blue almond M&Ms protruding alien-like from its frosted head. There were grilled burgers, potato salad, coleslaw, and the best baked beans I've ever had.

And the debate continues as to whether Sweet Wade's ambrosia salad is pink or orange.

And a pre-Desperate Housewives game of Hilarium and, the newest Gaggle inductee, Stick's portrayal of a queen, gave rise to a new catchphrase:

"I'm gonna read you bitches! I'm gonna read you bitches!"

All in all, I had fun stuff in my basket this year.

Thank you, Easter Bunny. Bawk-bawk!

The Interview Continues - The Hearthusband Questions

2006-04-13T19:54:00.000-05:00

Turnabout is fair play. So after I quizzed the Artist, I made sure that he came up with a few questions of his own for me.

1. Who do you consider to be your positive gay role model? If multiples, list. And why?
This is a really hard question for me. So I thought it might be easier to describe the qualities that my positive gay role model would have.

My gay role model is comfortable with his sexuality, physically, emotionally, and politically.

As a sexual gay man, he doesn't hide it, nor does he make a big deal out of it. He recognizes that being gay goes beyond who he has sex with. But he's also comfortable with whatever his "thing" is. Every gay man has his "thing" (and in some cases, "things") that turns him on. Married men. Furry men. Twink boys. Men who wear frilly panties. Nipple play. Ass play. Leather or latex. Hey, it's your thing. Whatever floats your boat. Even if my schooner isn't set out to sail by it. I admire those gay men who are who they are, and aren't ashamed or embarrassed about who they are in the bedroom. And they talk honestly about it, but not like they're bragging about it or going for shock factor.

Mentally, he's okay with the way he's wired. He's not carrying around mountains of guilt, nor does he carry around some internalized homophobia that makes him despise or, at least, mistrust all of the gay men who aren't like him.

Politically, he knows when the time is right to stand up and be counted. And he knows when he needs to shut up and sit down.

For example, last night at the gay and lesbian center, I heard SYD (Skinny Young Dyke), - the same one Sweet Wade bid on at the auction - describe an encounter she had with a girl who gave her a ride home from school.

"I just don't get why some people are so oblivious to their own oppression," SYD said as she rolled her bike into the room.

Earlier in the afternoon, as they were loading SYD's bike into the "oppressed" girl's car, the girl said, "It would be so much easier if a guy were here to help us." Naturally, SYD was appalled, and she went on a 15-minute tirade about "white male privilege."

The poor girl could only say, "Is this where I turn?"

I admire SYD's outspokenness, but I think she might have missed the point. When the time is right, write a letter, vote, carry a picket sign outside the Republican National Convention. But when someone is helping you load your bicycle into their car, shut up and enjoy the kindness.

Socially, he's not exclusively gay. He's balanced. And he can easily transition from one degree to the other.

Maybe I've just described the most well-adjusted gay man. And I'm not so sure he exists. But it's a nice ideal to shoot for.

I'll get to these other questions later.
2. What is the sexiest thing about being a gay man? And why?
3. What is the ugliest thing about being a gay man? And why?
4. As an arist you paint what is in your mind's eye. If you were blind, what would you paint and what would guide you?
5. Being a "spiritualist", what guides you down your path to enlightenment?

Sprung

2006-03-30T21:35:00.000-06:00

It must be spring. I know this not because the flowers are blooming and the trees are budding. But because within 20 minutes of washing my car yesterday afternoon, it was covered with a fine layer of yellow-green pollen.

Today, it was blue skies and 81 degrees in Memphis.

And it's funny how not only does spring make the world wake up, but people too. More than in springs past, I notice this year how everyone seems to be rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and coming to back to the land of the living.

I've been a little restless and bored the last few weeks, and that's what prompted another template for my site. And I've been too bored with the site to even think about posting much. And because everyone seems to be waking up, there have been a few other things to occupy my time.

There was the Chef's birthday party. While not as wild as last year's Greco-Roman toga orgy, what would a Gaggle gathering be without a theme and costumes? This year's theme was "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil" and the dress was Southern eccentric. So it was flowers, candles and Southern Comfort punch in JonJon's backyard. And naturally, there was lots of seersucker. And the ladies thought Southern eccentric meant big floppy hats, big swinging necklaces, and lots of makeup. However, I can't believe there wasn't a Lady Chablis. And I think my outfit was more Drum Eatenton in Mayberry.

Last week, I found myself being auctioned off in the Memphis Gay & Lesbian Center's bachelor and bachelorette auction. And there's nothing like the prospect of being sold off to the highest bidder like a piece of furniture to make you feel like either a scratched-up end table or an antique English armoire. However, two grande gin and tonics later, I didn't really care that much. Don't get me wrong, though; I'm pretty impressed with the fact that I brought in $425.

And one of the best moments of the night was when this cute slim character came out on stage, white shirt, tie, short haircut, and glasses. Wade has a soft spot for twinks so he threw up his hand to bid $105.

"Wade, that's a girl!"
"What? No, it's not!"
"Yes, it is."
"Oh dear God, somebody please bid 110."

Tomorrow, Hotass and I are headed to Nashville for a three-day weekend. Hopefully, this will quell any feelings of wanderlust and spring fever for a while

Lastly, a song much less annoying than "Popular" has gotten stuck in my head. While it was intended to be the Dixie Chicks' big giant fuck-you to the conservatives who trashed them after Natalie Maines said they were ashamed to be from the same state as George W. Bush, the song translates pretty well into a big giant fuck-you to anyone who has ever pissed you off, and lets you know it's okay to hold a grudge.

Dixie Chicks - Not Ready to Make Nice

No One Mourns the Wicked

2006-03-17T19:30:00.000-06:00

Since he doesn't watch tv or read, I'm not sure how Hotass discovered Wicked. And one of our recent therapy sessions happened to coincide with his purchase of the soundtrack.

Lately, we've had a couple of mutual counseling sessions to help each other figure out life, but the latest one turned into a dissection of the story of Elphaba (aka The Wicked Witch of the West) and Galinda (alias: Glinda the Good Witch).

I read the book and hated it, and because of that, I couldn't understand how the musical could be the least bit entertaining.

So instead of trying to psychoanalyze each other last Thursday, Hotass replaced the video card in his computer, and we listened to Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel.

And I hate to admit that I can't get these fucking songs out of my head. I've downloaded (and that's downloaded legally in case you're wondering) "Popular," "For Good," and "I'm Not that Girl," and they've been in heavy rotation lately.

And it's gotten so bad that instead of driving down Poplar Avenue, I'm now driving down Pop-YooHoo-Lar.

Popular-Wicked Soundtrack

Robbery at the Kodak Theatre

2006-03-06T20:11:00.000-06:00

I don't care how hard it is out here for a pimp. It's harder for a trannie.

And that's why Dolly deserved to win Best Song for "Travelin' Thru."

Of course, if a downhome girl from East Tennessee couldn't win, it might as well be some Memphis gangstas representin' the other side of the state.

And I really think Felicity Huffman deserved the best actress award. Come on, she is a woman playing a man turning into a woman. That can't possibly be an easy role. But at least she lost to Reese Witherspoon, who is just cute as a little bottle of buttermilk. I can't rate her perfomance since I didn't see "Walk the Line," but she's just so cute.

I'm not sure I understand the Academy's recognition of Reese and Philip Seymour Hoffman. I'm sure both performances were stellar, but doesn't it seem that it would be easier to play real characters? They had real people to serve as a jumping off point for their roles. Not like Felicity Huffman and Heath Ledger who created their characters basically out of nothing but words on a page.

And did anyone in the world actually see "Crash?" Wasn't that a James Spader movie where people got off on car wrecks?

And it might have been just me but everytime the camera cut to Jake Gyllenhaal, he seemed to be looking at Heath Ledger with the desperate look of unrequited love.

Or maybe it was just the look of sour grapes.

To Flee or Not To Flee?

2006-03-01T21:21:00.000-06:00

You barely have time to bask in the afterglow before you start asking yourself the questions about proper trick etiquette.

Should you come and go, and run the risk of being a total cad? Or should you linger a little while, and run the risk of being the one he couldn't get to leave?

If he jumps up to grab a towel, it's a good sign that you should find your pants and hit the door. Which is fine if you don't particularly want to stick around.

What if the pre-foreplay signals said that he was sorta into you, but he's already rummaging for his underwear and putting the lube back in the nightstand drawer before you even had a chance to get your breath?

What if you kinda sorta like him, and he dashes for the stash of towels and starts making the bed? How much uncomfortable small talk do you have to make while you dress, and still get your point across that you'd like to see him again and not seem desperate?

What if he wants to cuddle and you don't? How many uncomfortable minutes have to pass before it's okay to excuse yourself? And aren't the excuses like "I've got an early day" or "I've got to let the dog out" a little transparent?

If you like him and you think he likes you, how do you politely decline an invitation to stay because you really do have a legitmate reason (or maybe you just aren't up for a sleepover) and not seem like you're making stuff up?

If it's your place, and you're not into him, how do you not make it obvious that you're ready for him to leave and still be a polite host?

How come Miss Manners never addressed this? Or should you just go back to thinking with your dick?

A Case of the Drag-Ass

2006-02-22T18:39:00.000-06:00

"Good morning, Eeyore," said Pooh.

"Good morning, Pooh Bear," said Eeyore gloomily. "If it is a good morning, which I doubt," said he.

Today, I had a good case of the drag-ass. No, not a day where I put on a pantyhose and pranced around to "These Boots Are Made For Walkin'."

But a day that you immediately know when you get out of bed, after four punches to the snooze button, you know that there can be no possible good that will come of this day. Your heart just ain't in it. It would be a better day if I spent it curled up in bed.

So I took my time warming the shower to a body-scalding temperature. I fretted over what to wear. I felt fat and frumpy. The toothpaste squirted out in one big gelatinous blob instead of the nice smooth line with a cute curl they show on TV. The toothpaste splattered tiny white dots all over the cuff of my black shirt. It was going to be a bad hair day and I really didn't care. And then I decided it's finally time to go to work.

I arrived at work and decided breakfast would be a good pick-me-up, so I walked next door to Mrs Winner's for two sausage biscuits and a medium Diet Coke. Fried pork, butter-slathered carbohydrates, and a calorie-free soda to make me feel better. Even Latoya or whatever her name seemed to be more chipper than I was on a chilly, dark, rainy Memphis morning. I got back to the office and sank into my chair with a sigh.

My boss bustled into my office a little later with sunglasses still on. Why were the shades necessary today? Her manic energy was more than I was ready to tolerate. She dispatched the latest message from on high in her pleasant, "it's-all-sunshine-and-rainbows" way. The message only created more unnecessary work for me. And I guess I might have sighed a little too much or rolled my eyes a little too obviously.

In her "Pollyanna-on-speed" yet indirect way, she then told me that I was working too much and suggested I take time off. Like, this afternoon. She's crazy as hell, but she might be on to something. But as great as it sounded, I knew that being gone for the afternoon would only mean more to deal with tomorrow.

After four hours of making calls, returning emails and answering questions, I turned off the lights in my office and walked out. I grabbed a bottle of cheap Cabernet* at the liquor store, and retreated to my apartment.

Having the afternoon might have been a blessing. It would have been a good day for painting, or reading, or running on the treadmill, or spending a few hours figuring out how to fix my life.

Instead it turned out to be a good day for wallowing in the puddle caused by my little black raincloud.

---
*Which reminds me of a funny story

A couple of weeks ago, I overheard a man in a restaurant ask his waitress for a Cab.

She returned a few minutes later, and asked him for his destination.

How the Other Half Lives

2006-02-22T15:13:00.000-06:00

Last night, I went to a Memphis Grizzlies game. During halftime (do they call it halftime in basketball?), it was my turn to buy beer. So I scouted out an ATM to get cash and then return with two Miller Lites.

No one was at the ATM but the person before me left their receipt. I was almost content to just take my $20, and leave it there, untouched. But at the last minute, curiosity got the better of me, even if for no other reason than to do a good deed and toss their receipt in the garbage.

The person before me had withdrawn $20 from their checking account as well, but unlike me, they left a balance of $117,075.41.

$117,075

What kind of person has more than $117,000 in their checking account at any given time? How does one amass that kind of money in their checking account? Why isn't it in a saving account or a CD or investments? And why would you leave a receipt in the machine?

And why only take out 20 bucks?

The Interview Continues...Five Questions For a Hearthhusband

2006-02-20T17:49:00.000-06:00

Now that The Artist, aka Diary of a Hearthhusband, has celebrated Imbolc and Ash Moon, reduxed the Duo's home, and chased Abigail in out of the rain, he has temporarily run out of steam with his blog. He's asked me to provide a little inspiration via "the interview."

1. I imagine that your typical day is rather structured and ritualistic and it stems from your pagan spirituality. What is your daily routine?

2. It's been several years since you learned you were HIV-positive, and to your friends, you don't make a big deal out it. How has it affected your outlook on life?

3. You and The Chef tied the knot in September in a state that obviously doesn't recognize same-sex marriages. Your ceremony was more about celebrating love and commitment, as it resulted in no legal benefits. What is your opinion of gay marriages vs. civil unions vs. commitment ceremonies? Or does it matter?

4. What three things have Big Linda told you that you will count as lessons of life?

5. What's gonna happen to poor Bree Vandecamp?

And now the rules:
The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Hey, Remember When...?

2006-02-12T19:50:00.000-06:00

No, of course you don't. Because it never happened.

I'm stealing this from Sardonic Bomb.

If you read this (even if we don’t speak often or don’t really know each other) please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me.

It can be anything you want — good memory or bad — BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE.

So leave me a comment and tell me what you don't remember about us.

Better Late Than Never

2006-02-08T19:19:00.000-06:00

After a year and a half, I have officially shed the last physical evidence of ever being a Nashvillian.

Today, I got new license plates, emblazoned with the "SHELBY" county name.

Yes, I've been driving around on expired plates since October, hoping to prolong the forgiveness that Memphians give to out of town drivers. But I knew in my heart, that forgiveness was only a farce. My idiocy behind the wheel was only giving Memphians further reason to hate Nashvillians. And I'm okay with that.

But, before I could get new plates, there was the cracked windshield to be replaced, and the headlight to be fixed. Never mind that I had those rectified months ago. I was thriving off the fact that I had gone almost five months without getting a ticket.

Good sense finally got the better of me, and I decided that I shouldn't wait any longer. Actually the thought was that I should stop being so white trash with my expired plates.

So this afternoon, I took off the Davidson County plate and replaced it with the brand-new plate design that proclaimed that I am a Shelby County resident.

On the down side, if it were a vanity plate, it would say that I ate 71 fleas.

Ink

2006-02-08T19:15:00.000-06:00

I had wanted a tattoo since I was in college, but like most folks, I didn't know what I wanted or where I wanted it.

Back then, the only person I knew with a tat was a girl studying criminal justice. I sorta had a crush on her, but I also suspected her to be a lesbian. Her tattoo was a ying-yang symbol on her ankle, and her rationalization was that if she, in the line of duty, were dismembered, the medical examiner could still identify her body by virtue of the tattoo on her ankle.

My reasons were a little less practical. I was idealistic in the sense that I wanted some sort of meaning attached to it. Not only did I want the tattoo itself to mean something, I wanted to be able to look at it and not be reminded of a drunken escapade or an intolerable boyfriend-of-the-moment. I wanted to be reminded of a good place in my life, remembering where I was, mentally and physically, when I added that permanent design to my body.

So I waited. And it took me til I was 30 to get there. Virginia and I had just gotten back from OBX the first time. I had just celebrated my 30th birthday. And I was single, free of any emotional attachments to any negative feelings or hateful boyfriends. And tattoos were suddenly cool.

After a few trips to the studio to flip through the three-ring binders filled with photocopied sheets and photos of sample design work, I decided on mine. I wanted the Libra pictogram on the small of the back.

It makes sense. I'm definitely a Libra, and Libra rules the lower back and buttocks. After sizing and re-sizing the design on the copier a few times, my tattoo artist was ready to begin work. And perhaps it would have been better had he been a ZZTop-bearded, Harley bear.

But no. Brandon was HAWT. Mid-20s. Clean shaven. Tasteful tribal tattoos snaking up his well-developed forearms. Heavily gelled hair in the gay tiara, and thick-framed Buddy Holley glasses.

The room was set up with the padded chair. He said, "Unbutton your pants and bend over the bar there." I think I was instantly erect.

People always ask, "did it hurt?" Honestly, it was more uncomfortable than painful. The small of my back is somewhat of an erogenous zone for me anyway. And so when the hot tattoo artist passed over a cluster of nerves with a vibrating needle...well I almost launched out of my chair.

Forty-five minutes later, I was officially scarred for life.

And I thought it was rather unique. And then a few weeks later, I found this picture floating around the Internet.

Is there no such thing as an original idea anymore?

So I think I'm ready for the next unoriginal idea. I've got it narrowed down to two locations: my left shoulder or my right hip.

And I've got it narrowed down to two designs:

The Star: Just like this design, only in black and white. Simple, understated, masculine, and I have a plate that I picked up at a Goodwill with the exact same star around the rim.

The Scales: Keeping with the Libra theme on my body, I could add the other symbol.

Also in true Libran fashion, I can't make a decision to save my life.

The Year of the Frog

2006-01-29T19:48:00.000-06:00

The Artist was a little disappointed and embarrassed to find out it isn't The Year of the Frog.

His first mistake was listening to his mother, Big Linda, when she said with unquestionable authority it was the Year of the Frog.

In preparations for Shenandoah's Asian-styled birthday party, The Artist was intent on carrying through on the theme. He asked the lady behind the counter at the Asian market if they had any frogs.

"Frogs?"

"Yeah, frogs. This is the Year of the Frog in the Chinese calendar."

She held up a paper placemat and pointed.

"Year of Dog. Year of Dog. There no frog in Chinese zodiac."

Elderly Asian men in the back of the store giggled, and murmured something that sounded like "crazy roundeye." The Artist gathered his chopsticks and fortune cookies, and left under of a cloud of Eastern ignorance and Western shame.

Frog or dog, Happy Chinese New Year, anyway.

And while I'm not sure but I think that the changing of Rooster to Dog might explain the restlessness I've had all weekend.

I tried to draw. I've read. I started and finished a new painting. While I was waiting for the paint to dry, I gave my blog a re-design. I had lunch with a guy. I ran on the treadmill yesterday and today for 30 minutes each time. I swept the floors. I scrubbed the tub and the bathroom sink.

The Chinese horoscope for Rats in the Year of the Dog says nothing about a sudden burst of energy.

"You'll be on good terms with your nearest and dearest, in an atmosphere of warm complicity, and in an ambience that you'll know how to make welcoming and full of life. However, remain on your guard concerning certain persons, as the risk of a dark plot cannot be totally excluded."

Not that I'm putting a whole lot of faith in Chinese astrology. Last year's horoscope turned out to be completely unreliable. Much like Big Linda.

I Hoped for Something Profound...

2006-01-28T20:03:00.000-06:00

Here are the rules:
1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fourth sentence.
4. Post the text of the next 5 sentences (#4, 5, 6, 7 & 8) on your blog, along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it. Just grab what is closest. No cheating.

I cheated. The two closest books on the shelf were Dr. Phil self-help books, Self-Matters and Relationship Rescue, and quite frankly, I think he's mostly full of shit now.

So I grabbed the third nearest book. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil by John Berendt.

"...There are times I don't feel like puttin' on a dress or makin' my face. But I come down here and do it anyway, because it's my job. It's how I make my living. And I'll tell you somethin' else: It's damn hard work bein' a girl full time!"

"Chablis," said Burt..."

Granny Got Me

2006-01-26T19:53:00.000-06:00

In a half-hearted attempt to fulfill my new year's resolutions, I have succeeded in walking to work four times in the last two weeks. But it's only two blocks and it takes about five minutes. And it's even sadder to consider that most days, I drive.

I drive everywhere, despite that within a three-block radius of my apartment is my bank, a record store, a convenience store, a hospital, a pizza joint, Blockbuster, a hamburger place, Taco Bell, Krystal, the dry cleaners, my office, a meat-and-three, a hair salon, a gay bar that I've been to once, and a post office. Wait, and I almost forgot the liquor store.

There's no reason for me to drive anywhere.

Even though I needed my car this afternoon to go to meetings out in the burbs, I still had to walk this morning because I had neglected to notice over the past few days I had a dangerously low tire.

So today as I was walking home at lunch to get my car and put air in the tire, I noticed an older woman walking toward me.

In this part of Memphis (ok, almost any part of Memphis), you expect to get asked for money. Panhandlers, beggars, annoyances, charity opportunities, whatever you want to call them.

Sometimes I will give them whatever change I have in my pocket, just because I have this idea that this will be the act of kindness that gets me into heaven. But later I realize that I might have just given a handful of pennies to a crackwhore so she could get her fix, or 35 cents to somebody who just didn't want to do real work.

This lady didn't look the part of the crackwhore, nor did she even look like that Las Vegas granny with a gambling addiction. She was an older black lady, with a purse and a brown overcoat, a white crochet cap. I didn't see her as a panhandler, nor even as a Krystal Queen.

As I passed, she asked if I could help her buy some groceries for her and her kids. I couldn't refuse that story! I reached in my pocket and gave her about 45 cents in nickels and dimes. She thanked me and I walked on home, feeling pretty good about my charity.

I drove the car very slowly down the back streets to the convenience store. I got the tire aired up and I pulled in next door to Krystal to get a B.A. Burger for lunch.

And there was Granny, clutching a bag of Krystal's and slurping Coke from a 32-ounce cup. An old man was moving boxes out of his 70s model Buick so she could have a seat.

I had just broken my last dollar bill for change for the stupid air pump. I had just put a diet Coke on my debit card, and I was about to have one of the cheapest lunches around. And there sat Granny with her Krystal Combo that she bought with the help of my handout.

I got out of my car and I stared hard at her, debating if I should ask how she was going to feed them kids with only three Krystals. As she climbed into the car, she caught my eye and for a split-second, she looked busted. Then in another split second, she turned smug and her eyes seemed to say "gotcha!"

I've stewed ever since.

Woof-Worthy #10-12 - Jason, Jack & Jake

2006-01-24T19:24:00.000-06:00

Jason Statham - The Transporter 1 & 2 - His job is to deliver packages without question. Then how much would it cost for him to deliver his package?

Jack Johnson - Former surfer turned laid-back acoustic musician who was pegged to do the soundtrack for Curious George. Entertainment Weekly said he was "so laid back, it was hard to tell when he was worked up." Fortunately, EW said, his melodies are "meatier."

Jake Gyllenhaal - The man who went bareback bottom in Brokeback. But, remember, he was also "Bubble Boy." That's a lot of embarrassment to overcome if he ever wants to top Heath.

The Brokeback Remix

2006-01-24T18:26:00.000-06:00

You've seen it. You've cried about it. Now it's time to dust off your cowboy boots and don your pearl-button shirts and go dance to it.

Here it is... the dance remix of the Brokeback Mountain theme.

"The Wings (Finnbarr Massi Mix)" - Gustavo Santoalalla

Is nothing sacred?

Actually, it isn't that bad.

Passion Play

2006-01-22T00:07:00.000-06:00

The last play I saw was Godspell at Theatre Memphis. A couple nights later, Jesus instant messaged me on Gay.com and invited me to come over. Let the record show that I did not get freaky with Jesus.

Last night, I saw Corpus Christi, and I think God winked at me. As the actors milled around the stage before the play started, God seemed awfully nice as he passed by.

The lesson: Stop seeing local productions with religious themes, because I already have enough issues with religion. And I certainly don't need to deal with the perception that the Father and the Son, and maybe even the Virgin Mary, want to get in my pants.

The other lesson: Maybe I get carried away with the whole "suspension of belief" thing.

Despite whatever issues I might have with God and religion, and regardless how blasphemous Corpus Christi was supposed to be (there were protesters outside the theatre tonight...well, only two), I did indeed feel a little like the Prodigal Son returning home.

Corpus Christi is a retelling of the life of Christ, if Christ had been born Joshua, a gay man in Texas. Joshua develops a, um, gaggle-like group of 12 friends, and they travel the countryside performing miracles and teaching a message of love, kindness and tolerance eventually being persecuted by the Christian conservatives.

Like the playwright explains in the opening lines, this is a story that's been told time and time again, and there are no surprises. We know how the story ends. But it presents some interesting and amusing "what if's?"

What if Judas was pissed off because he couldn't have Joshua/Jesus to himself? What if Joshua healed Phillip the Hustler of HIV and Phillip joined the Apostles? What if James and Bartholomew were a committed couple and Jesus performed their ceremony? What if Joshua and the Apostles danced under a disco ball to Cher's Love One Another?

Well, I was surprised at how moved I was during the final moments. Unlike Brokeback Mountain, I managed to keep the deep whimpering sobs in check, but I still had tears streaming down my left cheek. I can't explain what it was that moved me to tears.

Actually, I'm kinda glad that I can cry just because the elastic is shot in my pantyhose. I can cry at the drop of a hat these days. At least for the last week, I've been highly emotional, and I credit it to a week without seeing Lexi. The vertigo seems to have passed, and I'm left with raw emotion. Which is kind of nice and scary at the same time.

Maybe the Lexi withdrawals allowed me to have a religious experience last night. Whether it was the play or the play assisted by Lexapro leaving my body, I really did enjoy it.

New From K-Tel: Nasty For Sale

2006-01-19T21:12:00.000-06:00

The other night I got sucked into a "Top 40" show on VH1. This show? The 40 Most Awesomely Bad Dirty Songs Ever.

Incidentally, and I blame it on the full moon, I had been thinking about a new mix CD. I was thinking something rumpshakerish, something nasty. Thanks, VH1, for reminding of some songs I might have missed.

Therefore, here is my MP3 playlist entitled "Selling Nasty For Sale." And I only used one song each from Lords of Acid and 20 Fingers.

1. "I Ain't Yo Ho" - 24K
2. "Nasty Boys" - Janet Jackson
3. "Slip N Slide" - Tia
4. "Bootylicious" - Destiny's Child
5. "Touch It (Dirty Mix)" - Monifah
6. "Juicy" - Better Than Ezra
7. "Longview" - Green Day
8. "Milkshake" - Kelis
9. "R. U. Nasty" - RuPaul
10. "If That's Your Boyfriend" - Me'shell Ndegeocello
11. "Boom I Fucked Your Boyfriend" - 20 Fingers
12. "Spank My Booty" - Lords of Acid
13. "I Am the Body Beautiful" - Salt N Pepa
14. "Take Your Time (Do It Right)" - SOS Band
15. "My Neck, My Back" - Khia
16. "Naughty Girls" - Samantha Fox
17. "How Many Licks" - Lil Kim feat Sisqo
18. "Oops Oh My" - Tweet
19. "Me So Horny" - 2 Live Crew
20. "Hot in Herre" - Nelly
21. "She Bop" - Cyndi Lauper
22. "I Got That Boom Boom" - Britney Spears

For $11.95 plus shipping and handling, you can be spinning these tunes at your next party - even if it's just you shakin' your bacon in front of the mirror by your poor lonesome self.

And if you order within the next 24 hours, you'll receive the special bonus DVD of the Gaggle in high-whore cheerleader drag performing your favorite "Nasty For Sale" hits.

Order now. Operators are standing by.

Willy Nagin and the Chocolate Factory

2006-01-17T21:57:00.000-06:00

In a year of political retardation and what-the-fuck's, New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin's comments about a "chocolate city" might be the sweetest one to come along in months.

"How do you make chocolate? You take dark chocolate, you mix it with white milk, and it becomes a delicious drink. That is the chocolate I am talking about," he said. "New Orleans was a chocolate city before Katrina. It is going to be a chocolate city after. How is that divisive? It is white and black working together, coming together and making something special."

And what did the fucktard New Orleans resident have to say on CNN?

"He used the wrong dairy product to describe us. We're more Neapolitan, not chocolate," Gerhold said. "It doesn't do the city any kind of justice."

Apparently he didn't remember Rocky Road or pistachio. Because there are more than enough nuts.

The Dark Side of Brokeback Mountain

2006-01-17T21:05:00.000-06:00

Also known as, Where the Sun Don’t Shine.

I’ve heard lots of people say they were uncomfortable with the sex scene in Brokeback Mountain, including those gay men who have lifetime subscriptions to pierceduncutmen.com. Watching gay sex, even if implied, was a little disconcerting in a movie theatre where someone who could have been your mother was in the seat in front of you.

It looked extremely painful for Jack Nasty, so perhaps the discomfort is expected.

If Ennis Delmar spit in his hand before penetration, this couldn’t have been the desperate fumblings of a frustrated cowboy. That looked like the loogie of experience. How did he know to do that?

But then I’m reminded of masturbation. If he’s not using sheep fat, what else would a ranchhand use to facilitate self-pleasure out on the range? So maybe a hawker was natural for Ennis.

Poor Jack Twist.

The Baba Wawa Interview Continues - Meet Virginia

2006-01-17T20:10:00.000-06:00

Mmm, I would be delighted to interview you. Although, you are the real BabaWaWa.

Cameras are rolling so let’s get started…

1) You're an international superstar author with million selling books in most of the free world, and one or two villages in the US. You snagged a creative genius as a husband, and were fortunate that he isn't gay. So why the sex with female-to-male transsexuals?

2) Virginia, I know you don't own a dress. Your hair is always a mess, Miss Loves Babies-and-Surprises, but the world still thinks you're beautiful. Since I will forever connect this song to you, what song would you use to describe me and why? (Wait, suddenly I made YOUR interview all about ME.)

3) I was both intrigued and a little frightened by your post on August 19, and the only one of the month. No title, no credit to Annie Lennox. What was on your mind that day? And, in your opinion, why might have I been frightened?

4) You’ve long been a fan of gay sex, especially literary and cinematic gay sex. What is your analysis of the sex scene in Brokeback Mountain?

5) What makes you wicked?

6) Where might you be going in August?

And now the rules:
The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
6) The picture of Barbara Walters is optional.
7) Also optional is the BabaWawa 1-2 punch, also known as the egoboost-egoboost-BANG! question

Because I Have To...

2006-01-15T11:52:00.000-06:00

It's time for my obligatory post on Brokeback Mountain. Everybody else is doing it, so I might as well do it too.

It's finally been released in Memphis, and if a bomb had gone off at Studio on the Square last night, it would have wiped out half of Memphis' gay population. Perhaps I shouldn't give the radical right any ideas.

I read the short story and knew what to expect. Or at least I thought I did, but I didn't expect my reaction to be so visceral. I had to sit through the closing credits and cry. In fact, I can hardly look at that picture right there and not be moved to tears again.

It's powerful. And I wonder if this film resonates as strongly with straight audiences as it does with the gay audience. I guess it would have to. Having seen the movie now, I'm especially awed by the fact that a heterosexual woman crafted this story so beautifully and the screenplay was adapted by Larry McMurtry. At any rate, it certainly does indicate the talent of Annie Proulx, McMurtry, Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal.

Proulx said in an Advocate interview that this story took twice as long to write as a book because, "Because I had to imagine my way into the minds of two uneducated, rough-spoken, uninformed young men, and that takes some doing if you happen to be an elderly female person."

It's a powerful lesson about a lot of things. Don't think that the gays have cornered the market on what gays think and feel. Don't think that the straights have a monopoly on love.

And if the story teaches anything at all -- and I will defer to Virginia's assessment on this one -- "It is also one of the saddest things I've ever read because their feelings are so much larger than their own abilities to express them: their tragedy is the failure to embrace what gives them joy."

Do not let your life go by without learning what brings you joy and embracing it.

The Interview Circle Continues...

2006-01-15T10:54:00.000-06:00

He has asked to be interviewed and so here are Dusty's questions....

Now I tried to keep in perspective that I know him personally outside of his blog, and I tried to think like your average, everyday reader who knows him only through what he posts. And I'm keeping questions to information I've gleaned from the new and improved Dusty Version 2.0. Yeah, believe it or not, there was Original Dusty, but I don't remember much about him. (Does that blog even exist anymore? It would be a shame to lose that history.)

UPDATE: It does still exist - inthiscloset.blogspot.com

1) There has never been a point in your relationship with LeBobo that you haven't lived together. But now the two of you have a home and a dog together. How was it for you to make that leap into responsibility, and how has this affected your relationship?

2) In the past year, you've quit the band and removed yourself from essentially all aspects of the former "Christian" life you had. You obviously have/had a deep connection to God, but to the casual observer, you've separated yourself from church and all of the trimmings. Do you still feel as close to God as you once did, and what do you do on a daily basis to maintain that connection?

3) Realizing that this will change nine times in the next hour and a half, what's your brain-child of the moment?

4) I know this might be complicated to explain, but how do YOU write music? How do your ideas get from brain to completed piece?

5) You've stepped up as quite the gay rights activist, especially since you just came out within the last year. What motivates you to get fired up about it? For you, is this part of your coming out process? How do you see your level of activism in five years? And which issue facing gay men really gets you riled up?

And now the rules:The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

The Blog Interview

2006-01-14T17:03:00.000-06:00

What does Will's inquiring mind want to know? I needed to be interviewed because I've been feeling less than creative and motivated to post lately, so I made a desperate cry for attention, and Will has kindly provided these interview questions.

The twist of the game is that the questions are specific to the person. None of this "what's playing on your iPod" and "what three items would you need if you were stranded on an island." Will took his time this week reading my blog and here are the questions he prepared for me. And he did a mighty fine job.

Oh, and pay close attention to the rules at the bottom.

1) Like many gay men, you've identified your friends as your family. The Memphis Gaggle plays a huge role in your life. Were you a founding member, or did you find them somehow and get adopted, and how?

I've thought about the Gaggle's genesis, and I've decided it just must be a freaky force of nature that pulled us all together. I really believe that people wander in and out of your life for a reason, and for this moment in time, we need each other for whatever reason. We've all adopted each other. Hotass and I have known each other the longest, but I've never felt like it was our magnetic personalities and sparkling wit that have brought everyone together.

It's more like a sucking black hole. Hotass was friends with Tman and Buffy before I got to Memphis. Buffy was friends with Wanda. I met the Dynamic Duo when I got here, and introduced them to Tman and Hotass. Hotass worked with Dusty. Dusty introduced us to Bobo. I worked with The Pink Lady in Nashville, and introduced her to everyone else when she moved to town. The Pink Lady started working with Shenandoah.

And one day during the summer, we looked up from our cocktails and realized that we had created a family.

2) You're in your mid-30s, part of a gay tribe and out via your blog, but not to your parents. How do you see their reaction when and if?

I made the decision a long time ago that if they want to know, they'll ask. And when they ask, they already know the answer. So my honest answer won't be a surprise. Now of course, should I have the good fortune to meet someone while my parents are still alive, there will come a time when I will probably want them to meet him, and vice versa.

My parents and I have a good relationship but we aren't "close." Honestly, I have no idea how to predict their reaction.

If I were to come out today, would there be tears? Probably. Most likely, the immediate reaction would be either "I knew that already" or a stone-faced stare while it sunk in. A great ugly scene? Written out of the will? Disowned? Probably not.

More than anything, I suspect the attitude through their remaining years might probably be quiet and unspoken disappointment. And why would I want to inflict that upon them? And, selfishly, I'd rather their thoughts of me be full of pride.

3) Video porn is (in)famous for highly variable production values, but you speak of critiquing it like fine cinema. Who are the directors whose work you particularly like, individual stars and titles that meet your standards?

Porn is hit or miss. When anybody with a video camera can make porn, one thing I always look for is consistent, yet unique, quality. Who wants to rent or buy a movie, and then when they get it home, find it to be, um, limp? I want variety (men, sets, positions, set-ups, kind of sex, etc.) and some semblance of a story.

I want to be entertained and aroused. And I know that I can almost always count on certain directors, actors, and studios to put wind in the sails.

Joe Gage is a great director and probably my favorite. Take a look at some of his old stuff like Kansas City Trucking Co. and L.A. Tool & Die, and compare it to some of the newer films he’s done for Titan Men, like Men’s Room: Bakersfield Station and Alabama Takedown, and although there’s almost 30 years between them, they’re consistently and unwaveringly hot.

When it comes to studios, TitanMedia, MSR Videos, Raging Stallion and HotHouse almost never let me down. I used to be a Falcon fan, but their videos are all over the place these days, and you never know what you’re gonna get.

And the list of actors that melt my butter change almost daily, but here’s a list of who’s doing it today: Kent Larson, Tag Adams, Jason Branch, Dick Wolf, Lance Gear, Zak Spears (I prefer the one with hair over the bald one), Danny Vox, Joshua Adams, Gus Mattox, Michael Brandon and Chad Hunt.

And if you can combine any of the above, you’ll have a movie that you’ll come back for again and again.

4) You slipped in without any further explanation that you'd gotten paid for sex twice in your life. How did this happen and how did you deal with it?

The first time was in college. It was summer and I was bored, so I drove an hour to the nearest big city, if you can call Paducah, Ky., a big city. It was a big city because it had an adult bookstore. It wasn’t even my intention to go in for sex. I really was there to get a magazine or watch a video and maybe get off. I was really surprised when I was sitting in my booth and someone came in.

He offered 20 bucks to blow me. I turned him down. He offered $40, and I realized that yes, I could be bought. He got down on his knees in the cramped booth, and blew me to finish. He then offered another $40 if I’d fuck him. No thanks, and I left with two twenties in my pocket. I drove straight to the mall, and bought my first set of contact lenses.

The second time was many years later. I was single, and a man propositioned me online. He’d pay me to have sex with him. He was older, late 40s, married, and successful. Not exactly handsome, but not atrocious either.

He made a pretty convincing case. I would have sex anyway. He wanted sex, and by paying for it, he was assured that it was readily available, and he didn’t have to go through the mind-numbing and often disappointing task of cruising for it. And basically, he wanted a steady paid-for fuckbuddy. Say, every Thursday, I’d put out, he’d get off, and I’d be $100 richer. Everyone goes home happy.

We got together once. For me, the sex was less-than-spectacular, and he left $100 on the dresser. A couple days later, we were chatting online and he asked if I would have had sex with him if he hadn’t paid me. I was honest, and said probably not. I didn’t hear from him again.

Oddly enough, I never felt cheap. I viewed it as strictly a business transaction. Let’s face it. I’ve done more for less. Would I have had sex with these two men had I not gotten something out of it? Probably not, but then again, I’ve made errors in judgment before. At least, we both got something we wanted.

I’m not proud of it, but I’m not ashamed either. Chalk it up to experience.

5) For a decade or more, Hotass has been a constant presence: friend, confidant, traveling companion, sometime housemate, companion in a number of "firsts" in life--but you've said there's never been sex between you. How would you describe your relationship with him; is love involved on some level?

Hotass and I have a very special relationship. For whatever reason, I think we have a special connection that goes beyond friendship, but it’s definitely not a romantic bond. It’s not a relationship that I’ve seen reflected anywhere else in my lifetime. I suspect it’s similar to what lifelong partners experience if the romance and the passion have subsided.

And people ask, and probably secretly think, if perhaps Hotass and I harbor some unfulfilled love for one another. And I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt, that is not the case.

I love him and I’d give him a kidney if he needed it. He’s the one I’d call if I needed to be bailed out of jail or dump a body in the river. He’s the one I call when I get my heart broken. And he’s the one I’d trust with my life. Kinda like Thelma and Louise, Lestat and Louis, Laverne and Shirley, MaryAnn and Wanda.

And now the rules:
The Official Interview Games Rules:
1) If you want to participate, leave me a comment below saying, "interview me".
2) I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3) You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5) When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

The Bear In My Bed

2006-01-11T21:40:00.000-06:00

Here's one for the psychoanalysts. Why has a 33-year-old man suddenly decided he can't sleep without a teddy bear?

You see, right after Christmas, I had a couple of dates with this guy. Actually, if you want the full story, Hotass and I went to Metro on the Thursday before Christmas. Hotass met this guy. We'll call him Hoover. They had a few dates (maybe two, maybe three). Hotass invited Hoover to come to the New Year's Eve sleepover at the Dynamic Duo's. But just before NYE, Hotass reconciled with his boyfriend, and had to uninvite Hoover.

Hoover sees me on Gay.com on New Year's Eve day, and we chat, and we meet that afternoon. We talk, hang out and seem to hit it off. Since he was already invited, I asked him to join me that night at the Dynamic Duo's for NYE. When I picked Hoover up, he had the cute, adorable, soft, fuzzy bear for me.

It was a sweet gesture. Needless to say, Hoover and I didn't see much of each other after New Year's Eve. We had a whirlwind affair that lasted about 72 hours. I think he might have wanted instant relationship and I'm so not ready for that. And the whole thing was incredibly dysfunctional on so many levels, even in those three days.

But now I have this cute, adorable, soft, fuzzy bear propped up on my bed. And every night since then, I have fallen asleep clutching or at least have my hand resting on this teddy bear, and it really is quite calming. I even kind of have little freak-outs in the middle of the night when I realize I've knocked him out of bed.

Fortunately, I haven't named him something retarded like Mr. Fuzzy or Snuggles. However, I am leaning toward Timothy or William.

When I was a kid, I had quite a collection of stuffed animals. And every night when I went to bed, I positioned them all around me in the bed, careful to rotate the placements nightly so that they didn't get their feelings hurt because I chose one over the other to sleep closest to me.

And the other reason for putting them all around me was so that whenever the monster under the bed reached up to grab me in the middle of the night, it would take one of the stuffed animals first and feast upon their Poly-Fil innards before realizing its mistake. I was considerate of the animals' feelings but not afraid to sacrifice them for my own safety.

I won't even attempt to psychoanalyze this any further. It's gotten a little too fucked up for even me. Besides, Timothy/William is asking me to come to bed.

Happy Blog-iversary to Me

2006-01-05T23:06:00.000-06:00

Musings of a Man in Memphis is one year old on Friday. Yay Me!

New Year's Resolutions

2005-12-30T18:19:00.000-06:00

Why not jump on the freakin' bandwagon and make new year's resolutions? I've never been good at keeping them anyway, but this year I resolve will be different.

1. I resolve to keep my new year's resolutions.
2. I resolve to lose 15 pounds by April 30th, and find my size 30/31 waist again. I currently tip the scales at 166.8 pounds, and I would very much like to see 150 again. I got some great pants that I want to squeeze my ass into.
3. I resolve to not feel like I need to wear a shirt by the pool this summer.
4. I resolve to exercise more so that I won't have to wear that shirt, and so I can get my cholesterol and my blood pressure down.
5. I resolve to begin attending a church where I feel comfortable. And no offense, but I'm not sure the Episcopal Church is the way to go for me. I want to at least attend once a month, maybe First Congo or the Unitarian Universalist.
6. I resolve to paint more.
7. I resolve to write more, something that isn't posted on this blog.
8. I resolve to get out of the house more.
9. I resolve to love my job.

Eh, maybe I'm maybe asking too much of myself.

He's So Gay...

2005-12-29T13:59:00.000-06:00

How gay is he?

He's so gay, he farts rainbows.

Shut Up and Be Merry

2005-12-25T17:57:00.000-06:00

I left on Friday afternoon for my first trip home since February. Before I was even out of cell service range, I had whined to Hotass that I didn't want to go home. I wasn't in the Christmas spirit and the trip home only spelled more frustration, awkward silences, and to be honest, a lot of uncomfortable memories.

I spent Friday night with my dad and stepmom, enduring 24 hours without cell phone service, my father switching back and forth between wrestling and FoxNews, waking me up twice before 8 a.m. to ask if I was ready for breakfast, and asking asinine questions like:

"Do you ever go out to Germantown?" Dad asked out of the blue over lunch. Germantown is the affluent suburb of Memphis, and I had no idea what he was talking about.

"Huh?"

"Do you ever go out to Germantown?"

"Yeah."

"Do you party with the Germans?"

"What?"

"Do you party with the Germans??"

"What Germans?"

"The Germans in Germantown."

I was at my wit's end and I popped off that there are no stupid Germans in Germantown.

On Christmas Eve, I went to spend the night with my mom. I kept losing cell phone conversations because I was in the middle of nowhere and because the phone was out of juice and the car charger kept coming unplugged.

As I bent over while I was driving to retrieve the charger from the floor for the tenth time, Hollywood took over my brainwaves, and I saw myself in my own Christmas movie.

The man disillusioned with Christmas returns home for the first time in months. Tolerates crazy father and eccentric step-mother. While driving to his mother's, he shouts "Goddamn!" when the cell phone charger unplugs for the tenth time, he bends over to retrieve it. He runs off the road. Gets knocked unconscious when he crashes into someone's Christmas light display and three spirits visit him to show him his own Christmas miracle. And snow falls on Christmas morning.

I had been in the door barely five minutes until both my mother and one of her sisters both commented that I had put on weight. Then they insisted that I have some cheese and broccoli soup followed by a slice of homemade chocolate pie.

I had just put my fork down when the phone rang. It was my cousin, Anita, obviously hysterical because Mom had to ask who it was twice. There'd been an accident. They think Adam's dead and my mother needed to go stay with my aunt.

Adam was leaving work and skidded off the road, hitting a tree. He was killed instantly. I didn't know him that well. He was 22 years old, married and had three little girls, "stairsteps" as my mother kept calling them, ages 3, 2 and 1.

Adam's grandmother tearfully unwrapped the Christmas gift she had gotten for Adam. It was a mirror etched with the 23rd Psalm. My loony Aunt Iva Dell passed it to me and asked me to read it out loud.

Now while I didn't have a religious experience, but I did see my reflection in the mirror and I saw what an insufferable and unpleasant Scrooge I had been.

Last night, my mother and I exchanged gifts. She gave me a space heater, which is something I said I wanted. I gave her one of my paintings and a lavender-scented hand lotion/soap set. I showed her my pictures from Las Vegas, and she showed me the pictures from her retirement party. We ate broccoli and cheese soup and ate homemade coconut pie. She made me check my blood pressure which was sky-high. I made her a CD while we watched Home Alone. I went to bed at 10 and read Brokeback Mountain for the second time.

We got up this morning and had a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats while we watched part of A Christmas Story. I was back home in Memphis by 3:30.

It wasn't fancy. It wasn't steeped in tradition.

But this weekend did point out to me just what a whiny brat I've been about Christmas, and I was reminded that sometimes I just need to shut up and be merry.

So if you missed the moral of the story...Get over yourself and be happy for the moment. Be thankful for what you have, and quit whining about what you don't have. Be thankful for the friends and family in your life, and fuckin' be nice to them.

Oh, and make friends with the Germans in Germantown

Merry Christmas.

Stories in Search of an Author

2005-12-20T23:32:00.000-06:00

Since I started my blog back in January, I've had a gazillion ideas for postings bubble to the surface. And like a gazillion sperm swimming for the egg, some make it and become full fledged posts. But most just die along the way.

And some almost make it, lying in wait in the vaginal canal for their big break, waiting for the next flood of inspiration...this metaphor just got a little too disturbing.

Anyway, I've got a bunch of little swimmers waiting in my drafts folder. Ideas that at least deserved a headline and maybe a couple of sentences. So that these ideas get some validation, here's a run-down of the drafts that may or may not see the light of day.

Hark! The Hairy Angels Sing - Despite my Grinch-like heart, there are still some Christmas songs that can make it grow two sizes big. But I quickly lost interest.

Morbidity At Its Finest - I figured what better place to dictate your funeral instructions than in your blog. But, after three paragraphs, I didn't want to think about it anymore.

Mea Culpa - It was to be a creative way to take my share of responsibility for the downfall of my last relationship. But I decided I wasn't ready to go to those depths yet.

Songs I'm Effin' Lovin' Right Now - I bet in the course of a year I've started this blog about 12 times. But I get bored with it before I can finish it. And then the songs change, and I have to start all over.

Things That Are Funny and Shouldn't Be - I got as far as One-Eyed Kitty, and Lorrie & Dorrie, and decided there way too many things to be captured in one post.

My Secret Lover - It's a secret and so I can't tell you.

Top Ten Reasons Gay Men Aren't Sissies - Well I'm still trying to come up with reasons 4-10.

What To Do? What To Do?

2005-12-20T23:12:00.000-06:00

It's been two months since Dusty and Bobo gave me a home on the Internet, at least a formal home. For the past year, the blog has been like my first apartment. A little disjointed, with lots of hand-me-down accessories and mismatched pieces. But hey, it's mine and I like it.

But my new home sits empty. And sometimes I go and look at its four walls and try to figure out what to do with the place. And so far, no brilliant ideas.

Dusty and I sat down about a month ago, and sketched some basic sections - art, writing, photography - but still, no bright ideas on my part on how to start filling it.

So give me some suggestions. It's a blank slate.

The Hooker Story

2005-12-14T20:03:00.000-06:00

It really was going to be a great winter's night.

I left work about 2:00 p.m. after it had already been snowing for about an hour. It took me about three hours to get to "the villa on the hilla" that Hotass and I shared. Nashville drivers turn into complete morons whenever anything falls from the sky.

I got home and touched base with Hotass, who was closing at Pier 1. He was stuck there for a while. Snow nor sleet nor dark of night can keep retail from its appointed rounds. So I settled in for what should have been a long winter's night.

I lit some candles, made some mulled cider, and flipped around through the channels, trying to find something mindless to settle into. After surfing for a while, I decided to step out on the front stoop to watch the snow fall.

Now, let me just preface this part of the story. Hotass and I had a nice apartment to be as broke as we were. We lived in a convenient apartment complex to most everywhere in Nashville. Gated community. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. A dishwasher. A patio that stumbled right off into the woods. The dumb blonde and the stoner chick lived above us and they were fabulous. And even if we were just a stone's throw from Murfreesboro Road, second only to Dickerson Pike in its reputation as Hooker Row, we felt like we lived in a safe environment.

And thank God, we didn't live in Hickory Hollow. Yet.

However, we thought the guy across the breezeway was a little odd. Scruffy, scary, and when he opened the door to his apartment, there wasn't furniture. Only piles of blankets and clothes.

So on this snowy night, I stepped out on the stoop to watch the snow fall for a minute, and to try to take some pleasure in nature. Blah, blah, blah.

"Hey! Are you leavin'?"

I whipped around to see her on the metal stairway. She was wearing black patent leather pumps, and a lime green lace mini-dress. And to top off her glamorous outfit, she wore a black psuedo-satin trucker jacket.

"Huh?" I so eloquently replied.

"Are you leavin'? I really need a ride."

"Well, um, no. I was just..."

"Oh please. I really need a ride. Just right up the street to the Drake Motel..."

Now, had I not been feeling so charitable, I might have realized that the Drake Motel was Hooker Hideaway. But instead, I was naive, and failed to think this through.

"Your neighbor brought me up here for a date, and then told me he didn't have no money."

Still naive, I think what a crappy thing to do. Promise a lady a lovely evening and tell her you're broke. In addition to not having furniture, the scruffy neighbor was losing points quickly.

"Please?" she pleaded and I caved.

"Sure, c'mon on in. Let me put my shoes on."

Now, let me remind you that I still have no idea that Lady is a hooker. Never occured to me. Not for one second. I'm thinking she's just a little trashy.

"Hey, you want a blowjob?"

"Huh?" I'm so good at that.

"A blowjob? It's just 10 dollars."

"Um, I, uh, no thanks."

Dude, she's a hooker! In my mind, you would have thought I had just won the Nobel Prize. But, I had bigger problems to solve. I had already promised Betty Blowjob a ride back to the Drake Motel, and she was sitting on the barstool in my apartment. Hooker or not, she was still a human being, and would it kick me to show a little kindness?

How do you kick a hooker out into the cold?

"So can I still get that ride," she asked, nonplussed by my rejection

"Sure." And I finshed lacing up my Timberland boots. "Let me grab a coat and my keys."

"Great. I'll get my friend."

Friend? What friend? There was only one hooker on the steps. I hadn't counted on this being a package be-nice-to-a-hooker, get-the-Unabomber-free deal.

Unabomber met us on the landing. A little wild-eyed. A long coarse beard with streaks of gray. He wasn't the guy who lived across the breezeway but I had seen him come and go a few times.

So I put Unabomber in the backseat of my two-door Pontiac Sunbird, and put the Hooker in the front seat. Being the nice guy I am and wanting make them as comfortable as possible, I started the car to let it warm up and I got out to scrape the ice and snow from the windows. It was Southern hospitality at its worst.

Fortunately, they didn't steal my car. I got back in and started the long drive to the Drake Motel in about three inches of snow that had yet to be scraped off the street.

"Did ya know that Christy isn't hookin' anymore," Hooker asks Unabomber. "Oh no, she got picked up for grand theft auto."

A police car passed us at a top speed of 35 mph. In the snow, I could only drive about 25 mph, and I prayed that the cop wouldn't leave my sight.

"Hey you can just drop us off at the store," the Hooker suggested. There was a convenience store just across from the Drake Motel.

I'd like to say that I whipped into the parking lot, but with the snow I could only creep across the lanes, and pull into the parking lot of the convenience store.

The Hooker got out of the car, thanking me profusely for the ride, and Unabomber flipped up the seat and got out too.

"Hey, if you can wait just a minute, I'll need a ride back," Unabomber asked. It wasn't as if I could speed away. Instead, he got into the 1980 Buick next to us. I saw an exchange of some sort across the front seat -- hands passing rapidly over the bucket seats. Oh, it wasn't enough that I had to give a hooker a ride; I had to give a crack addict a ride to his hook-up too.

Unabomber finished his transaction and got back in the car. Suddenly, the Hooker came running out of the store and pounded on the hood of the car.

"Gimme some money! Gimme some money"

Unabomber rolled down the window and slipped a wad of cash through the two-inche crack.

"Thanks," she said and went back inside.

All the way back to the apartment, Unabomber was extremely gracious and thanked me for my generosity.

When we got back to the villa on the hilla, Unabomber retreated into the crackhouse next door and said that he might need a ride later.

I replied that I might not be around. I went inside and turned out the lights.

I told my story to the apartment manager on Monday, and she confided that the crack addict across the breezeway was fresh out of jail and his brother had rented the apartment for him. Within a few days, he was evicted, and I never saw Unabomber or the Hooker again.

Cindy Lou Who Can Kiss My Ass

2005-12-10T22:25:00.000-06:00

So I just might be the biggest Grinch I know, and it gets worse every year.

Today, I was in the Piggly Wiggly, picking up milk, tuna fish, chicken breasts, and peanut butter. There was a constant barrage of Christmas from the moment I walked in the door.

I was greeted with the unenthusiastic frown of the Salvation Army bellringer. I can't say that I necessarily disagree with her attitude. I'd be pissed off too, standing in the cold and ringing a goddamned bell for money.

There were poinsettias and candy canes at every turn. Festive displays of cake mixes, nuts, and pork rinds. You'd have to know the Piggly Wiggly I shop at.

And the Christmas music was especially loud. At one moment, I really did feel physically ill, and I can only attribute it to Burl Ives. And a few minutes later, I was humming around to "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" before I could help myself. Brenda Lee brainwashed me.

The office Christmas party is on Tuesday. And yeah, we'll play Dirty Santa, and I'll bring home another pair of M&M boxer shorts. And most of us will just keep checking our watches to see how much longer we have to tolerate our boss. And I'll keep count of how many times she says "Fabulous" and "Isn't this fun?"

I'm beginning to resent those folks who give me the shocked and sad look when I admit that I am not putting up a Christmas tree, as if my life was the worst sadness that was known only in a world that revolved around Christmas sweaters, radio stations that play Christmas music 24 hours a day starting on Thanksgiving, and red bows tied to the front of every SUV at the mall.

And I know this is precisely the reason that I have postponed my Christmas shopping. I just can't bring myself to tolerate the crowds, or my indecision, or the Christmas fantasyland where Santa charges $10 for pictures with him.

Now before you start thinking that my head isn't screwed on right, or my shoes are too tight, or the most likely reason of all...my heart is two sizes too small.

There are parts about Christmas that can warm even a small-hearted grinch like me.

Mariah Carey's version of "O Holy Night" brings me to tears every time. And Christmas gives me a good excuse to listen to The Carpenter's "Little Altar Boy" and RuPaul's Christmas Album with a kick-ass remix of "Hard Candy Christmas."

I get a kick out of making Christmas ornaments. Hotass and I saw a demonstration of how to make them years ago in Garden Ridge, and I bet I've been doing them ever since.

I love the movie "A Christmas Story."

I love laying under a beautiful decorated tree in the dark, watching the lights glow and listening to Christmas music.

And what might be the only religious bone in my body, I love going to Christmas Eve service at Christ Episcopal in Nashville or West End Methodist or Calvary Church in Memphis. And I love T-man's "And the Night Went Wild with Angels." I really do feel a closeness with God at those times.

I like that warm feeling I get when I'm around people I enjoy, and we're laughing in the kitchen, and for just a second, I smile and think that this is what Christmas is supposed to be about.

Oh my God. Did I just have a sentimental Christmas moment?

And he puzzled three hours, `till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before!
"Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store."
"Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more!"

Pleh. I won't be carving the roast beast anytime soon.

A Flurry of Activity

2005-12-06T21:11:00.000-06:00

Rumor has it that we might be in for our first snow of the year on Thursday. And already, like a schoolkid, I'm praying for the fucking blizzard of the century if it would keep me from going the two blocks into work.

So I checked the National Weather Service to get the official word.

"Rain, Freezing Rain, Sleet, Snow, Partly Cloudy, to Partly Sunny, with Flurries"

Looks like no matter what happens, they nailed it.

How to Pee

2005-12-02T19:44:00.000-06:00

A few years ago, I remember reading a question in Men's Health magazine in one of their advice columns.

The poor guy was lamenting how, when he got up to pee in the middle of the night, he needed light to see where the stream was headed, or else he pissed all over the toilet brush. And if he flipped on the light, he stayed awake for the rest of the night.

The expert opinion offered back to him was that he should quickly turn the light off and on while focusing on the toilet bowl. By doing this, the image of the toilet bowl would be burned into his retinas, allowing him to continue to see where to pee in the dark.

How absurd. Why was it so difficult to tell the poor guy this? Walk into the bathroom, find the toilet, sit down, pee, and be done with it. Flush if you feel like it, or wait until morning.

By sitting down, you can almost fall asleep again.

You could do this in the dark. You barely have to open your eyes. Hell, you barely have to be conscious to hit the water that way.

Why is it such a slap in the face to masculinity to pee sitting down? Oh yeah, because that's what girls do.

Mental Health

2005-11-30T19:30:00.000-06:00

I take Lexapro, 10 milligrams a day. At least, when I remember to take it or I haven't run out.

And I'd almost give my right arm to get off this stuff. Honestly, I've forgotten what it is to feel much of anything anymore.

I've been taking Lexapro for about two years. My experience with SSRIs started in January 2003 after a friend of mine told me that I hadn't been myself lately, and that I should consider anti-depressants. I was opposed to the idea, especially since I once told Virginia that "popping little blue-bippies" wasn't really solving the problem. In retrospect, I probably could have used a Valium then.

Jeff told me he had some leftover Celexa if I ever thought about it. A few weeks later, after a particularly dismal date, I called Jeff to request his prescription bottle. He was out of town, but he told me where to find the key to his apartment and where the two-week supply were located.

The Celexa was apparently enough to convince me that maybe there was something to the whole pharmaceutical thing.

And then along came the ex. We moved in together in May of 2003, and by September, I caught him cheating. Even after he apologized profusely and swore he'd never do it again, I caught him again a few weeks later, virtually red-handed. He denied it vehemently. And I think I probably came dangerously close to a good old-fashioned Southern come-apart over the next few weeks.

I stalked him after work. I hacked his email account. I stuck as close to his side as possible. I rummaged through the incoming calls in his cell phone and cross-referenced them against numbers I found in his email. The boy was so totally busted. But still he denied it. And I felt like the prick for violating his privacy.

I wasn't sleeping and I was living every moment in anxiety. So I saw my doctor and explained that I thought I was depressed. The ex actually commended my actions, spouting forth the wonders that Lexapro had worked for him. I told the doctor how I had taken Celexa and it was a tremendous help. He told me that Celexa wouldn't have helped unless I needed it, and he wrote me out a prescription of 20mg of Lexapro. I picked up a bottle of water and my prescription at the drug store, and I popped one before I was even out of the store.

A couple days later, in the midst of the yawns and the swimmy-headed feeling, I decided that the motherfucker could do whatever he wanted to. In the middle of an argument, he asked me if I was angry, and I told him that I was on 20 milligrams of Lexapro a day; I couldn't feel a thing if I wanted to.

We broke up in January and I started seeing a therapist.

The eight sessions, paid for by the employee assistance program at work, was enough to get me through the break-up, and oddly enough, put me back into the relationship with a renewed frame of mind. We broke up in May again, and continued to live together until I moved to Memphis last October.

Lexi might have been my saving grace until I got to Memphis. Never, ever live with your ex after you break up. When it's over, pack your bags and get the hell out.

When I got to Memphis, I was ready to get off Lexi. I started to step off her several times but the side effects are loopy enough to make you want to stay on it. My doctor here prescribed me 10 mg to help me step down.

That was a year ago. When I start getting pissy, Hotass asks if I've taken a pill. It's usually near the end of the month when I start spacing the pills out to conserve them to see if once again I can get off the Lexi Train. First, the general pissiness, the snapping at people, the foul attitude, and then the impatience and anger, and the dizzy spells, and then the headaches and the nausea and the feeling that you're falling down, down, down in a burning ring of fire. And by that point, I'm jones'ing so bad for a lexapro, I'd kill a man or the slow pharmacy tech behind the counter at Walgreen's.

Of course, I feel good when I'm on my meds. I've been in the best mood since I started taking her regularly. I'm patient. I'm optimistic. I'm having a good time, but I feel like I shut down any feelings once they start up. In Vegas, I tried again to step off, but by the time the plane landed I was craving escitalopram oxalate. But then again, I'm not sure I remember or like what I felt like before I started the Lexapro.

I worry that Lexi is killing my sex drive. Sometimes, wind never blows into the sails when I think it should. It happens when I need it, but it's almost like the Mini-me has stopped thinking for himself. That, for once, the big head has started thinking for the little head.

And I worry that Lexi is making me fat. I've started a gradual weight gain since I started taking Lexapro, but it's hard to tell if I can attribute it to my laziness, my slowing metabolism, or Lexi.

And I worry that Lexi is preventing me from feeling, or has somehow caused me to think that any feeling whatsoever is a bad thing. That it's better to just be than it is to feel. And sometimes faking the emotion is easier than feeling it.

Woof-worthy #9 -- My New Favorite Porn Star

2005-11-23T22:24:00.000-06:00

Today, I killed some time by wandering aimlessly through Bookstar, but the last thing I need is a new book. I have a stack of books from my Insightout Books subscription that I still need to read. And before the trip to Vegas, I picked up an Oprah's Book Club selection, A Million Little Pieces, that I'm still working on.

So I obviously don't need reading material. Apparently what I needed was eye-candy.

From the top row of the magazine rack, peering through the plastic wrap, Todd Maxwell caught my eye, gracing the cover of Unzipped magazine.

Holy Ave Freakin' Maria, full of grace and sweet mother of Jesus H. Christ Superstar.

I really can say that I also bought the magazine for the articles. Such riveting journalism as "COLT Man Dean Phoenix Ponders Life Beyond Porn" and "Handy Tips for a Better Self-Orgasm."

And I really did read the article about Mr. Maxwell. Six feet tall. A beefy 210 pounds. Attended Cornell and got a degree in sociology and history. Laid off from a job as a schoolteacher (Can you imagine having Mr. Maxwell for third period world history class?), he found a job in porn.

And then I read...

"...Maxwell is what his fellow performers classify as a 'power bottom.'"

WTF?

Nevertheless, I'm only mildly disappointed.

Eat Me

2005-11-23T20:24:00.000-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving.

Queer & Loathing in Las Vegas - That's Me in the Spotlight

2005-11-16T23:10:00.000-06:00

That's me with the sun in my eyes.

The trip to Krave the night before had done little to stave off the, um, pent-up frustration. So we walked back to our hotel to change clothes, and then we walked about five miles through Bally's and the Paris to find the monorail station, which we had been hoping would save us a few steps. We rode to the Sahara, and then walked another five miles through the casino to find the Strip and get our bearings. And then we started walking again. Through a part of Vegas you probably shouldn't be walking unless you're streetwalking.

Nine miles later, we arrived at The Spotlight Lounge. This is probably the biggest gay hole in the wall in Vegas, and just what we needed. Flying nuns in Kabuki make-up and mustaches rollerskated in, and we decided we must be in the right place. Nuns don't drink just anywhere.

We had a few beers and I think the bartender was a little put out with me. I had to pay in dollar coins because earlier I made the mistake of putting a $20 in the machine for a $3 monorail ticket. It sounded like I hit the jackpot.

While we drank, Hotass watched out of the corner of his eye a woman who might as well been Juanita from Sordid Lives. I watched a bearish guy in an Old Navy t-shirt cruising me, or maybe he was cruising HotAss. Since we're Lorrie and Dorrie, sometimes it's so hard to tell exactly who is looking at who.

(I can't believe I found that great pic of Lorrie and Dorrie. And no, they have nothing to do with our trip to Las Vegas.)

Anyway, somebody was getting cruised, and the night was slipping away from us. We left there and walked down to The Badlands Saloon for another beer. Actually, I drank mine and half of HotAss'. We agreed to split up and meet back at the Spotlight three hours later. The night starts to get a little hazy here (i.e., what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas).

Three hours passed and I arrived back at The Spotlight right on time. Rather than freeze outside or look like a hustler cruising the parking lot, I noticed the bar was still open. Hey, I might as well have a beer while I wait, and I still had a few dollar coins in my pocket. Old Navy T-shirt Guy was still there.

Fifteen minutes go by. Old Navy T-shirt Guy starts talking to me. Turns out he was trying to figure out if Lorrie/HotAss and I were a couple. I explained that we're no more a couple than Laverne and Shirley were. Three beers go by, I learned that Old Navy T-shirt Guy was a local and a good kisser, and HotAss is an hour and 15 minutes late. I called him and it seems we forgot to specify whether we'd meet inside or outside.

By now, the monorail had long since stopped running, and wouldn't start again for another three hours. We were facing an hour hike back to Caesar's or a $25 cab ride.

A couple more beers went by. Old Navy T-shirt Guy and I stepped away for minute, and the night gets hazy again.

But I can tell you that, thanks to Old Navy T-shirt Guy, we were spared the hike and the cab ride back to the hotel. I can tell you that sunrise over Vegas is a beautiful thing. I can tell you that he dropped us off at the staff entrance and I think I had to pee five times before we got to the room. And I can tell you that the $50 room service biscuits and gravy Hotass and I had when we got back to the room were fucking delicious.

And so was the Bloody Mary I sipped poolside when I finally got out of bed that morning.

Queer & Lusting in Las Vegas - I Love the Nightlife

2005-11-14T14:50:00.000-06:00

Much to the delight of our bank accounts, Hotass and I returned from Vegas on Sunday with a little cash still in our pockets, and absolutely exhausted.

My feet and legs were killing me because we're too cheap for cabs. Actually, our one cab ride/comedy show was definitely worth the 16 bucks. The cabbies in Vegas get $50 from the strip clubs for every person they bring to their door, and the ride is free to patrons. So after dark, every free driver is trying to seduce horny men to go to the tittie bars.

Ours was a little disappointed that we didn't need a ride to the strip club, but like he said, he picked us up at The Buffalo, and he shouldn't be surprised. But at least he thought he was a freakin' comedian.

"What do you call a Mexican woman with no legs? Cunts-Way-Low. My girlfriend is Mexican and she don't like that one much. But that's okay. She sure can clean a mean kitchen. How come there were only 4,000 Mexicans at the Alamo? Because they only had two trucks."

Too bad we waited til the last night we were there to take a cab. My feet might not be cursing me now.

We walked almost everywhere we went. Even if it was in our hotel, it almost always seemed to be on the other side.

We saw Celine's show. It wasn't a show I would have picked on my own. I like her music as long as I don't have to watch her perform. The overacting gets on my reserve nerve. But truly, the show was incredible. There was enough singing, dancing and impressive staging to make me forget about the overacting. The performance of "Seduces Me" surrounding by writhing shirtless men was one of the most erotic things I've witnessed in some while. And she almost had me in the palm of her hand when she began "What a Wonderful World." Tears almost welled up in my eyes. But then she started flashing pictures of the audience on the video screen. And quite frankly, I just didn't see anything wonderful about them.

After Celine, we treated ourselves to dinner at Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill. I had the grilled lamb porterhouse with a sweet potato tamale. It was delicious, even if the meat was still on the bone. And you know how I feel about that.

After the show, Hotass and I stumbled into The Pussycat Dolls Lounge. Again, not something I would have chosen, but someone passed free passes into Hotass' hand. And this place was just cute. Yeah, leave it to a gay man to call a burlesque show, "cute." But Hotass and I were the only ones there to fully appreciate a spinning champage glass on a center stage that was just the right size for a Pussycat Doll to flail in, and two ceiling swings that featured pink feather boas suspending girls in sexy black-and-silver bustiers. Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was cute like me?

After one drink and one quick show, we hit the streets again, and walked 42 blocks to Krave for $10 liquor bust. Not beer bust, but liquor bust. $10 all-you-can-drink buffet. Now there's a concept Memphis could really latch on to. And you should have heard the sigh of relief when we spotted half-naked go-go boys. Las Vegas had been way too heterocentric, and we were starting to suffer from gay man's cabin fever.

The next night, we saw Cirque du Soleil's Mystere which was definitely breath-taking, especially the soft-core man-on-man balancing act. And like Celine, Mystere had me right up until the end. [Attention: spoiler ahead] The baby in footie pajamas that we had been following higher and higher through level after level of acrobats, trapeze artists, and flying hot boys, in the grand finale arrives on stage riding a giant, psychedelic snail with giant, hypnotic bubble eyes. WTF? A snail? I expected something more dramatic, sexier. Especially after that particular LSD trip.

Again as we're walking through the casino, HotAss picks up another free VIP pass, this time to Tangerine. Just in time for a cocktail. And also just in time for the Sirens of the TI show. As soon as we finished our gin & tonics, and as soon as the lusty pirate made off with the sexy siren queen, we bolted...

To be continued...

A Sure-Fire Oscar Contender

2005-11-08T21:18:00.000-06:00

Pick up your own copy of the soundtrack.

Viva Las Vegas - Elvis Presley
Days Go By - Dirty Vegas
Money - Pink Floyd
Do Ya Think I'm Sexy (remix) - N'Trance and Rod Stewart
It's All About the Money - Meja
Desert Rose - Sting
I Drove All Night (Hex Hector Remix) - Celine Dion
Soak Up the Sun (remix) - Sheryl Crow
It's a Sin - Pet Shop Boys
You're Nobody Til Somebody Loves You - Dean Martin
Ain't Love A Kick in the Head - The Rat Pack
Luck Be A Lady - Frank Sinatra
SexBomb - Tom Jones & Mousse T
A Little Less Conversation (JXL Remix) - Elvis Presley
Leaving Las Vegas - Sheryl Crow

Viva Las Vegas!

2005-11-08T17:40:00.000-06:00

Bright light city gonna set my soul -
Gonna set my soul on fire.
Got a whole lot of money that's ready to burn,
So get those stakes up higher.
There's a thousand woofy men waitin' out there.
And they're all livin' devil may care.
And I'm just the devil with love to spare.
Viva Las Vegas.

Tomorrow night, HotAss and I board a Northwest flight to Sin City. And I am absolutely giddy with excitement. I left work today with an uncontrollable grin on my face. Perhaps I should get out of the house more.

This is my first real vacation in three years, and somehow I don't think a trip to Las Vegas will be the same relaxing, introspective trip as my vacation in 2002 to the Outer Banks.

And really, don't people go to Vegas to see how much trouble they can get in? Isn't that what easy weddings, cheap divorces, slot machines and whorehouses are all about? Money and sex.

When I teasingly told my dad today that I might get married out there, he laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a full-blown belly laugh.And told me a story about how he had run into someone lately (he couldn't remember who) that had commented in disbelief on how I was the last remaining member of my family who wasn't "married or shacked up."

And since I have no money, this trip must be all about the sex. Maybe I'll meet someone out there to "shack up" with. And the family will be happy.

Have You Ever...? Part 3 - Virginia Strikes Back

2005-10-28T02:46:00.000-05:00

11. Have you ever called your girlfriend/boyfriend "Honey?" I do believe that I have called a boyfriend, "Honey-lamb." But you see, here in the South, we're lazy and we call our boyfriends, "Hun." As in, "Don't worry, hun. It happens to everybody." or "Hun, why don't you put down the gun and come back to bed?"

12. Have you ever changed your appearance a lot in a short time? I once made my black-as-an-Ace-of-Spades hair platinum blonde. Freaky, to say the least, and not attractive. Not long after that, I did something with my goatee. But I can't remember if I shaved it or it I grew it.

13. Have you ever cheated on an exam? Yes, I have. In a math class in college, I hid the formulas I needed in the sliding case for my scientific calculator. And I've lifted my paper a little too high to show my answers to the cute but perpetually dumb boy in history class.

14. Have you ever cried in public? Gimme a break. Of course I have. I cry at movies. I cry at "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition." I cry whenever channel-hopping just happens to land for a second on one of Animal Planet's animal rescue shows. I cry when I'm very angry and I cry when I'm very sad.

15. Have you ever dated someone from another race, culture or religion? "Dated?" No. And I'll let it go at that.

16. Have you ever driven a truck? Yes. Before I got my first car, I drove my father's black 1978 Ford pick-up truck with the fire-engine red tool box.

17. Have you ever eaten in a restaurant and realized you have no money with you? No, but once, HotAss and I were invited to a going-away dinner for which Hotass was assured that the host was picking everything up and that "everything will be taken care of." The restaurant happened to be a little out of our budget at the time, and everything wasn't taken care of. When the checks came, HotAss and I exchanged a few nervous glances across the table, when we realized neither one of us had enough cash to cover our tabs. Somewhere between random dollars and a little extra room on the credit cards, we covered it.

18. Have you ever eaten frog legs? No, but then I do have an aversion to eating meat off a bone. Especially bones that are prone to hopping and flopping around in swamp water. Blech.

19. Have you ever fallen asleep while talking on the phone? Yep.

20. Have you ever fallen down the stairs? Do I really have to answer this? Cue the wavy screen and the flashback music.

Red, Red Wine, or Que Shiraz Shiraz

2005-10-27T20:39:00.000-05:00

To prepare for my going-away party from the nonprofit agency in Nashville, a co-worker asked Virginia, "What kind of wine does he like?"

In pure snarky fashion, she replied, "Whichever one he happens to be drinking at the time."

Hey, da bitch knows me.

In the summer, you can't beat a perfectly-chilled Vivacious Vicky. Yeah, she's cheap. She's white, but damn, that girl know how to work it. But, I live above a liquor store, and the WineBear works there. I get a lot of the "budget-minded" wines, as he reminded me a few days ago. If I go in and he's working, he knows how just to direct me to the perfect white wine. Like the Cousino-Macul Sauvignon Gris.

But fall has arrived in Memphis. The cool, crisp air. Leaves are starting to fall from the trees. And a man's palate turns to tastes of something richer. Something red. And WineBear has some excellent recommendations.

Combine that with the fancy-schmancy corkscrew that was given to me by the Dynamic Dou for my birthday, I popped the cork on my first bottle of red wine for the season.

Ferngrove Shiraz 2003. Very tasty. And shiraz has always been my favorite red wine.

Desolation Flats Rustler's Red. Also very tasty. And perfect if you don't really know what you want since it's a "kitchen sink" of every red wine.

Cheers to Autumn.

Have You Ever...? Questions 6-10

2005-10-24T18:56:00.000-05:00

6. Have you ever been on TV? Yes. In a previous lifetime, I was the media spokesperson for a nonprofit agency in Nashville, so I ended up on the 6'o'clock news a couple of times. Once, I even demonstrated how to make sweet potato ice cream in the cooking segment on the midday show.

7. Have you ever broken a bone? Yes. When I was a college freshman, I had a group of friends with whom I played Death Tag in the Fine Arts Building on Friday nights. We drew names of our target, ensuring that no one knew who their killer would be. We chased each other through acting labs and music appreciation classrooms. One night, as I was being chased down a flight of concrete stairs in the fire exit, I landed on my right ankle wrong. Snap went my ankle and I spent the next six weeks in a smelly cast. The incident also ended my acting career. Just that afternoon, I found out I had gotten cast as Chorus Member #4 in the spring semester's production of Wiley and the Hairy Man.

8. Have you ever broken up with someone? Yes. When I was a college senior, I began dating Crazy Keifer. He worked with my roommate at Chili's, and he drove up from Nashville to spend his crazy server days off. After four weeks, it wasn't working out. So I broke up with him in the rain under the pine trees. Dramatic, huh? It gets worse. The next day, while I was in class, Keifer was still in my apartment and began drinking cheap beer at 10 a.m. By the time, I arrived home at 4:30 p.m., he was blind-ass drunk. I put him to bed and went out with my friends to The Pub.

We got back home about eight. Around 10, someone suggested I might should check on him. Crazy Keifer had slipped out into the night. The red light bulb on the bedside table was dramatic, casting the room in a spooky crimson light. The open window and the billowing curtains were even more dramatic.

I don't know how long he had been gone. He could have slipped away after we arrived home, or he could have left while we were gone, in which case he could have just left through the front door.

Coincidentally, Crazy Keifer also started the Crazy Crab Infestation of 1995.

9. Has someone ever broken up with you? Yep. And in every instance, it was the best thing that could have happened.

10. Have you ever called your significant other by the wrong name? I'm sure I have, but I can't recall a specific time. Wait, does "motherfucker" count?

Wake Me Up When October Ends

2005-10-23T22:19:00.000-05:00

This past week just might be the most blogworthy week I've had in quite sometime. So many things happened and I think that each one deserves its own post. But who has that kind of time?

So here are the highlights...

...Last Friday night, Kimdog took a roll on the river and spent the weekend with the Gaggle. She proved herself as a true honey when she conspired with us to redecorate Bobo and Dusty's bathroom in rubber duck.

...Bobo and Dusty hosted a housewarming party at their beautiful home. I'd love to visit them more, but I hear that Homeland Security has imposed travel restrictions on Memphis Midtown citizens to the state of Arlington. The evening also featured the surprise rubber duck motif in the bathroom.

...I went on a management retreat where I learned how to make boursin stuffed chicken and watched my boss get pathetically and unprofessionally drunk on scotch. In the middle of dinner, she tapped her glass with her fork, stumbled to her feet, and explained why Memphis' rank as the number one bankruptcy per capita city wasn't such a bad thing.

...I endured a five-hour-long and awkward car-ride back to Memphis with my boss.

...Upon getting home, I quickly painted my face and changed into my goth punk costume for the Halloween party.

...Today is my 33rd birthday. I almost feel like I should be disturbed by this, but, um, nothing.

...The Dynamic Duo threw a birthday luncheon for me, complete with Monte Cristo sandwiches and hearty vegetable soup. It was a nice chilly day, and it feels like fall has finally arrived in Memphis. We drew names for Christmas, and we discussed plans for our post-Thankgsiving progressive dinner party.

...I got some cool stuff for my birthday. A book of vintage male nude photography. A fancy-schmancy corkscrew. Gift cards to both Barnes & Noble and Old Navy. Kenneth Cole Reaction cologne. Yesterday I took myself shopping and found white 100-percent Egyptian cotton sheets on sale and a new shower curtain at Target. I can't tell you how excited I am to go to sleep tonight on classic white sheets. It really is about treating yourself to the small luxuries in life.

...I got so wrapped up in sheets I almost forgot about Dusty & LeBobo's gift. So now I get to figure out what do with my own website. Hotass has nixed the idea of a gay porn site. He thinks that might be overdone and common.

...When I got home from lunch, I had an instant message from my ex, "It's a chilly day here... brrr.... the kind of day when i miss you most... makes me want to be cuddling with you under a blankie, snoozing...." My ex and I had an instant messenger conversation for almost an hour and a half. And he never once acknowledged that it was my birthday. I almost feel like I should be disturbed by this too, but, um, nothing.

The Mad Organist - A Halloween Tail

2005-10-23T21:05:00.000-05:00

People on Willett Street whispered about the organist's house. There was something a little creepy about it, and every October the house became more sinister.

Some of the residents of the tree-lined street suspected that something twisted and evil lived in the darkness. They saw the old Ukrainian man through the windows, playing dark and disturbing melodies and inviting something perverse to their quiet conservative neighborhood.

As the leaves fell from the trees in the front yard, the house became more and more shadowed. The bare branches seemed to menacingly beckon to the quiet neighborhood.

Ten days before All Hallow's Eve, darkness came early to Willett Street. Candles in the windows in the house flickered to life, and the ghostly guests began to arrive. Like shadows, the shrowded visitors moved silently through the leaves, and entered the house. What demented ritual was summoning these souls?

A single virginal figure dressed in white arrived. A minotaur stomped through the yard with his manly devil hooves. The wild-eyed Devil himself appeared with one of his Satanic minions. The living dead and necrophiliacs mingled around the porch, swilling poison from red Solo cups and sucking down sweet blood-red Jello shots. Evil laughter and the agonizing cry of "Will someone please put on dance music?" drowned out the eerie music and echoed down the street.

And the organist, dressed in a cassock, chains, harness and a leather jockstrap, reigned in a kingdom of phantom fags and gay ghouls. As his ghastly guests reveled throughout the night, unfortunately the poor organist had no control over the poisonous evil he consumed that evening.

As midnight approached, while bloodsuckers floated rubber rats in the queso dip and a witch hunt formed to reveal the identity of the Black Phantom, two undead marched the organist to the second floor to prepare him for sleep.

Throughout the night, the neighbors heard gutteral moans, groans, garbled exclamations of "You guys are the greatest!" and the rattling of chains coming from the second floor window. By sunrise, the party had vanished into the cool October morning.

The organist came to just before church on Sunday morning with shackles on his wrist, mysterious ectoplasm on his crotch and shoe polish on his tongue. Hell's bells rang in his head, blocking out any recollection of the evening. And he's forever tortured because he can't remember if the evil he summoned truly arrived or if it was only a nightmare.