New Year's Resolutions

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...

How gay is he?

He's so gay, he farts rainbows.

Shut Up and Be Merry

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Thanksgiving.

Queer & Loathing in Las Vegas - That's Me in the Spotlight

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

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

Pick up your own copy of the soundtrack.

1. Viva Las Vegas - Elvis Presley
2. Days Go By - Dirty Vegas
3. Money - Pink Floyd
4. Do Ya Think I'm Sexy (remix) - N'Trance and Rod Stewart
5. It's All About the Money - Meja
6. Desert Rose - Sting
7. I Drove All Night (Hex Hector Remix) - Celine Dion
8. Soak Up the Sun (remix) - Sheryl Crow
9. It's a Sin - Pet Shop Boys
10. You're Nobody Til Somebody Loves You - Dean Martin
11. Ain't Love A Kick in the Head - The Rat Pack
12. Luck Be A Lady - Frank Sinatra
13. SexBomb - Tom Jones & Mousse T
14. A Little Less Conversation (JXL Remix) - Elvis Presley
15. Leaving Las Vegas - Sheryl Crow

Viva Las Vegas!

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Seven Things: Revenge of the Fortune Cookie

So you're sitting there at the Chinese buffet at House of the Golden Dragon China Panda Garden. You've had more than your fair share of Won Ton Soup, General Tso's chicken and something with snow peas, but otherwise unidentifiable. Everyone has laughed at the whore born in the Year of the Cock as determined by the paper placemats.

Your server arrives with your black plastic tray of fortune cookies. Everyone reaches for the plastic-wrapped treats, because you've heard before that it's bad luck to choose someone's fortune for them.

But doesn't the one who chooses last have his fortune chosen for him, simply by process of elimination? Or is that how the universe works? Are the ones who lunge greedily for the post-Moo-Shu-Pork taste of something sweet the same ones who should be beaten back unmercifully with sweet-and-sour-sauce-caked forks in an epic Oriental battle for the best destiny?

Or is it just a cookie? I'll leave it to Confucious to decide for sure.

Anyway, as you crack open your cookie, the greedy sons-of-bitches have already started reading their slips of paper.

"Good things are being said about you...in bed!" Riotous laughter ensues.

And everyone goes around the table, reading their fortune aloud and tacking on "in bed." Everyone smiles politely at the person whose fortune is stupid when their sexual proclivities are added on, and quickly moves on the next person, hoping for something racier.

Question for Confucious: Are our destinies and our personalities really determined by our bedroom habits? Get back to me on that, would you?

Anyway... so what happens if you take those two little words and start applying them to our favorite memes?

For example...

7 things I plan to do before I die..in bed:
1) Have sling sex.
2) Digitally record sex.
3) Zip through the Gay Kama Sutra.
4) Scream like a banshee.
5) Have a beefy, hairy, youngish farmer with a beard and in overalls plow new ground.
6) Fall asleep in farmer's arms
7) Now, that I'm older...sleep a full night without having to get up to pee.

7 things I can do...in bed:
1) Perform oral sex that's sure to please.
2) Analingus that's also sure to please.
3) Cuddle
4) Have breakfast
5) Well, God is a DJ...
6) Dream
7) Get distracted. (This was left over from Dusty's responses to the original "Seven Things," and I thought it seemed somewhat appropriate here.)

7 things I cannot do...in bed:
1) Eat a dirty ass.
2) Perform while the doberman watches.
3) Perform while the TV plays in the background, unless it's porn.
4) Sleep if it's unmade.
5) Cuddle with a 100 percent smooth man and 100 percent enjoy it.
6) Wear underwear or pajamas or anything of that nature.
7) Sleep when he's too hot. And I mean body temperature...

7 things that attract me to the same sex...in bed:
1) Thick dicks
2) Hairy chests
3) Uncut dicks
4) Facial hair
5) Good hands
6) Dark hair
7) Deep voice

7 things that I say most often... in bed:
1) Snooze. Snooze. Snooze. Where is the goddamn snooze button?
2) I fuckin' hate that alarm.
3) Gotta pee. Gotta pee. Gotta pee. Fuck, it's 4:13 in the morning.
4) Goddamn, you're burning me up.
5) Is that all there is?
6) Move a little to the left.
7) Oh, there you go.

7 people I want to do this with me...in bed. Well, they don't have to do it in bed. They can just blog about it.
1) Char
2) Virginia
3) Dusty
4) HotAss
5) Kimdog
6)The Artist
7) The Chef

Before Party-Throwing Fags Rejoice...

Before you demand one in your new-construction, neo-Craftsman cottage, know that the DishMaker has a drawbacks.
Wired News: Machine Makes Dishes on Demand

This seems like a pretty cool idea. Instead of washing dishes, make them at home and recycle them.

But it seems a little over-the-top.

"When Barbara Wheaton, culinary historian and honorary curator at Radcliffe's Schlesinger Library, told Massachusetts Institute of Technology researchers that she longed for durable dishes that didn't need to be washed and could be thrown away after a meal, she was surprised when they took her seriously."

Hello? Barbara, that's what we call "paper plates." And even Chinet makes some pretty durable dishes that don't get soggy with baked beans or ice cream.

And for example, it only makes a dish every 90 seconds. But for a Gaggle gathering, you might need 100 cups (we drink a lot) and 50 plates (we eat a lot too but the machine only has the capacity for 150 dishes). We'd need to put aside 3 hours and 45 minutes just to make dishes.

Hardly a good use of time.

I'm Coming Out!

In Honor of National Coming Out Day...

In the out-versus-closeted continuum, RuPaul might be a 10. She is pretty out there, out, proud and glad to drape herself in a rainbow flag. On the other end, you might find Tom Cruise or Kenny Chesney.

Now, as for me, I think I might fall somewhere about a 7 or 8. My parents don't know I'm gay. Well, at least not that I'm aware of. Or maybe like good Southern families, they just don't talk about those things. In either case, I decided a little more than a year ago, after debate for years, that I'll tell if they ask, or if a situation arises in my life that requires them to know.

Most of my friends are gay, and the ones who aren't gay know I am. And to be honest, unless you're gay, I don't let people into my world easily.

Most of my co-workers don't know about me. Although, in the past week, a few more people at the office have been clued into my secret.

My policy for coming out is to use good judgement. I'll tell you when you need to know or when I'm ready for you to know. I don't go to great lengths to hide it, nor do I make it the first thing a person recognizes about me.

Some people live quietly in their closets. Some crawl in behind the dusty shoeboxes and cower in the dark. Some men slowly open the door, and others kick the door down. My experience was more that someone ripped the door off the hinges and came in after me.

After a long and heated discussion about our respective sexualities, my college roommate, with whom I'd been fooling around with for years, pinned me on the bed with his knees and told me that I was gay and I would never be happy until I admitted it. The best he had been able to do up to then was get me to confess that I might possibly be bisexual.

That was also the same summer that I discovered Diana Ross. In a moment of boredom and love-sickness, I picked up the unauthorized biography at the library, and I bought three cassette tapes: Miss Ross and the Supremes, the best of Motown - 60s & 70s and the best of Motown-1980s.


I got stuck on "I'm Coming Out." The thought intrigued me and terrified me. I didn't want the world to know, but I wanted to let it show.


The whole "coming out" issue was complicated by the fact that my college roommate and I were from the same hometown and had been best friends all through high school. We had the same friends, and when he began dating a guy in our hometown who was known by all our friends, I knew it was just a matter of time before I was dragged through the homosexual mud.

Sure enough, it wasn't long until I was asked to come home by a girl friend to explain to another girl friend that I wasn't gay. She's in love with you, Julie said, and she'll be devastated to know that you're gay. So just come home and tell Diva you're not and it'll be okay.

I went along with the plan. I told Diva how absurd it was that I was gay and it was totally untrue. And I figured at best, I might be bi, because I still wanted to marry and have kids and and blah, blah, blah. She breathed a sigh of relief and we had a good laugh about it. In fact, we laughed all afternoon because...wouldn't it be so funny if I indeed were gay? The gay jokes ran rampant, and they eventually wore on my nerves. So I pulled her aside and confessed that I wasn't really bi and there was no way I was straight. I'm gay.

I knew she needed time to process it, so I told her to write down any and all questions she had. Nothing was too taboo, and keep a running list of questions. The next time I was home, I'd answer any and all questions she had.

The next time I was home she had a list of 35 questions, and I answered them all.

WWJD? - #2

He's 34 and lives in Washington, DC. He likes playing rugby and he describes himself as "somewhat kinky."

Today's link is brought to you by Bigmusclebears.com.

(Disclaimer: Not all links are workplace-safe. If you're going to surf the Internet and read crap like mine, surf responsibly.)

W.W.J.D.? - #2

Have You Ever...?

I got tagged by Virginia.

1. Have you ever appreciated a sunset? When I moved to Memphis, I had a great view of the sunset over the skyline every single night. And a July sunset in a partly-cloudy-Memphis-Tennessee-sky-with-a-chance-of-scattered-thunderstorms sky, full of reds and oranges and yellows and deep purple, just might be one of the most beautiful things you'll ever see.

2. Have you ever ridden a horse? Yes. In fact, at age 10, my intent was to become a serious barrell racer. I had this horse named Gypsy Lady, and she was black with a white star in the middle of her forehead. Because she was a little short-legged, she was not a barrell-racing horse. She wasn't really good on the turns. MaybeI wasn't that great of a rider. But if you put her on a straightaway, to a 10-year-old me, she ran like the wind.

3. Have you ever been a guest at a surprise party? The 7-11 party comes to mind. The Artist knew something was happening, even if he was a just little miffed that nothing happened on the birth date.

4. Has anyone ever thrown a surprise party for you? A poorly disguised surprise party that HotAss organized. The boyfriend-of-the-moment (Mr. Boring) took me out driving for a while and brought me back to my place for the Eeyore party. As an almost 33-year-old man, I am positively embarrassed that I had an Eeyore party at age 26.

5. Have you ever been in a fist fight? There have been times I wish I had used fists, and left a black eye or a busted lip. But the only real fist fight I've been in, I threw the one and only punch, breaking his nose in three places and making him bleed like a stuck pig.

The Night the Disco Ball Stopped Spinning

You might want to sit down for this. I have something very important to tell you.

I'm bored with dance music.

I know. I'm a little shocked myself. I sure didn't see this coming.

What Makes a Gaggle-Gathering?

It started with a birthday party for HotAss and me, and there has been a winter solstice dinner, a Village Christmas party, a New Year's Eve party, a chocolate party for Valentine's Day, a toga party, a Memorial Day camoflage party, a Fourth of July party, a convenience story party, a South Seas pool party, Pistol Pete's Bowl-a-Rama, and finally a celebration of love. And there's a housewarming for Dusty and Bobo coming up in a few weeks. Followed by a Halloween party and then a All Hallow's Eve dinner. The social calendar tends to fill up quickly.

And there were various and sundry gatherings thrown in there. And after 11 months with the Gaggle, one begins to see certain trends.

1. The Chef will lose his clothes. The first time I ever met the Chef he was naked. And, whenever acceptable, he is the first one to strip out of his clothes or wear as little as possible.

2. The Chef will put something in his mouth. I've got at least two pictures of the big-mouthed Chef inserting something huge into his mouth. In one it's a Diet Coke can. In the other it's a big-ass cookie. Like a python, he has the uncanny ability to unhinge his jaw and devour his prey.

3. The straight girls look glamorous. I'd like to think it's the influence of gay men. But secretly I know that these girls have more fashion sense in their purse than we have in ours. And they always look radiantly beautiful.

4. I end up naked with Wanda. I won't profess to understand. It's like the Bermuda Triangle, Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster. It's been witnessed by a handful of folks, but we may never completely understand what the hell is going on.

5. HotAss gets drunk. In the 10 years I've known Hotass, I've only seen him stupid, falling-down obliterated drunk a few times. But if the gathering a classic one, HotAss is stupid, falling-down obliterated drunk.

6. Dusty pukes and Bobo gets embarrassed. To Dusty's credit, he didn't puke at the wedding. Nor was he even obviously drunk. However, I've have seen or heard about him puking his guts out after a cocktail or nine. And amazingly enough, he has it to such an art form that he can puke and walk at the same time, never missing a step. And when he pukes, you can tell that Bobo just wants to drag his spewing ass away from the light of day.

7. Buffy chases a boy. 'Nuff said.

8. Buffy and The Pink Lady cheese it up for the camera. Because they are so photogenic, or because they are camera-hogs, I have numerous pictures of the two posed together for the camera. And it's not a candid shot. It's intentional. "Here. Take our picture."

9. Movies are quoted. I don't know how we could communicate if it weren't for quoting lines from Steel Magnolias or Sordid Lives.

10. There is a costume. Whatever happened to "come as you are?" I have to plan for every gathering, ensuring that my outfit fits within the theme of the evening. Or we make t-shirts for a function. What are we? Sorority girls?

11. T-man doesn't get a joke. Let me first say that T-man is brilliant, but sometimes he's a little slow on the uptake.

12. Wanda sneaks food in a corner. Like a bulemic binging on leftovers, when Wanda disappears, you're likely to find him hunched over the cake, the chips & salsa, the grilled bratwurst, or all three. "Girl, I'm hungry."

13. I fall down. I am one of the klutziest humans on the planet, and evidently I am more of a klutz around stairs, steps, and cracks in the sidewalk.

14. More than 75% of the Gaggle are wearing a cockring. What is the fascination with rubber, metal and neoprene? And why do we all feel the need to hoist up the boys? If you ask the Gaggle who is wearing a cockring, more than three-quarters will drop their pants to show you.

The Gaggle Goes to The Fair

What would a trip to the fair be without a cocktail? Not quite the fair I remember from my childhood, trying desperately not to spend all of my money in the first hour I was there and getting giddy at the mere thought of being flipped upside down.

Friday evening found me sitting at T-man’s, flipping through the Halloween issue of Martha Stewart Living. I ooh-aah’ed at Martha’s ideas for post-prison Halloween décor and food. Pumpkin lobster bisque served in hollowed-out squash. Artificial ivy spray-painted black tacked against Turkey Hill while tattered lawn-and-garden Hefty bags billowed in the windows.

Buffy entered the front door and gave hugs all around.

“Do you have anything to snack on,” Buffy asks, and then reconsidered. “What am I thinking? There’s gonna be all that food there. Do you have anything to drink?”

“We have gin. And gin, and gin,” Hotass offered. “How about a gin and Sprite?”

I sipped my drink while I marveled at Martha’s pillar candles wrapped with gauze and safety-pinned.

“That Martha. She is so fucking clever.”

Halloween is a big deal because it is a time to stick shit in the chandeliers. Hotass was already discussing plans of sticking tree branches in the chandelier to create an ominous canopy of reaching arms. Last year, ravens perched above the dining room table and Styrofoam skulls grinned down in the kitchen.

The Chef and the Artist arrived, fresh from their honeymoon, just as T-man bounded down the stairs, fresh from a healthy poop generated by his newfound love of all things organic.

After a quick discussion about riding arrangements to the Fairgrounds…

“We might as well take one car and save on parking.”

“We can but I’m on call.”

…we loaded into two cars, three by three, passing through tree-lined neighborhoods with the windows down, sunroof open, and back window down. Buffy shouted “nice ass!” to boys as we passed. It was truly a great day to be alive.

We had yet to even pull into the parking lot before we spotted the beefy security guard we believed to be text-messaging his boyfriend, and the Christian Brothers University’s baseball team, directing cars into the spaces.

“Well, what’s the point of going in? All the rides are out here.”

Walking to the fairgrounds, these 30-something men transformed into giddy adolescent boys. I swear I saw somebody skip.

We purchased our tickets, and the never-ending debate of food-versus-thrills resumed.

“Do ya’ll wanna eat first?”

“Let’s ride something first so that nobody pukes fresh corn dog.”

We couldn’t argue that point, and dazzled by bells, buzzers, hawking carnies and flashing lights, we moved down the Midway toward the first remotely-thrilling ride we came upon. Chalk one up for thrills.

Two rides later, we were reminded that we were not adolescent boys. We might have been squealing schoolgirls, giggling about the prospect of being thrown out into the middle of Arkansas and how hot that guy would be if he had teeth.

Or we might have been 30-something men, painfully reminded throughout the evening as we passed hydro-massage tables and hot tubs in the exhibit hall that carnival rides jostled our bones in ways that we just weren’t cut out for anymore.

We headed to the restrooms.

“Is this the one where there’s a gloryhole?”

“No, that’s the one on the other side.”

“Whatever happened to the old troughs?

“Hey, your name is still written in my stall.”

We stood and wondered about our next direction. A young couple passed by, the man swilling beer from a bottle.

“Hey, where can we get beer?”

“Do ya’ll want to eat now?

“Since we’re here, we might as well ride the Zippin’ Pippin.”

Thrills, two. Food, zero.

“This was Elvis’ favorite ride. He used to rent out Libertyland and bring his…hey, where can we get roasted corn?”

It didn’t take long for the eating binge to begin. Hotass and I stopped for Pronto Pups, slathered in mustard. T-man disappeared for a roasted turkey leg. Buffy returned with a boat of French fries covered in cheese from a jar. We turned the corner, and Hotass and I pitched our sticks and napkins in the trash. Up ahead, we spied a place with roasted corn, gyros, butterfly fries and more goddamn turkey legs.

I have this incredible aversion to eating meat off a bone that I have to pick up with my hands. Not only am I afraid I’ll choke on a bone, but I just feel barbaric gnawing at meat and slinging grease and barbeque sauce on my face. Ribs are out of the question. As are fried chicken and turkey legs.

The Dynamic Duo got gyros and fries and Hotass got a roasted ear of corn, generously dipped in a butter-like sauce. I got butterfly fries, a spiral cut potato thinly sliced and deep-fried. A little ketchup and it was positively divine. And I started to feel the sludge moving through my veins.

We wandered a little further down, and like eyes first looking up on the face of God, we stopped, mesmerized by the prospect of deep-fried junk food. Yes, battered and deep-fried Twinkies, Oreos, Three Musketeers bars, Snickers bars, Milky Way bars, and sprinkled with powdered sugar. At least one of each was ordered and we placed the paper plate around, sampling and reveling in the decadence.

Food scored a comeback, trumping thrills for a good 30 minutes, while we ate our way around the Midway.

“Let’s go into the Creative Arts Building before it closes…hey, look, mounted police.”

Inside the Creative Arts Building, there wasn’t so much art as it was people selling “You As a Cartoon!” portraits and scented candles.

We did see a real-live black Republican who was recruiting people for the Dark Side. Forming our solid alliance as Jedi warriors bravely facing the rise of conservatism, we moved deftly through the crowd and away from the men offering the smiley-faced “Smile! Jesus Loves You!” stickers on behalf of the First Fundamental Church of God Hates Fags.

Preventing an ugly scene, Hotass also managed to navigate me away from the snake on the fish and wildlife table before we made our way back out to the Midway.

As we stood in line for the Ferris wheel, we spotted the panties. We stood as a group for at least 15 minutes, laughing hysterically as parents re-directed their children away from the raspberry-colored panties that lay crumpled in the middle of the Midway.

From high atop the Ferris wheel, we called the Pink Lady, just to let her know that we were high atop the Ferris wheel.

We roamed the entire fairgrounds, deciding if we should eat or if we should ride something else.

“How about the Himalaya? I always wanted to be guy who ran the Himalaya.”

“Do you wanna go faster?!?” the Artist howled in a crazed rock-star voice.

“Do you wanna go backwards?!?” HotAss howled back.

“Remind me before we leave I want to get one of those Fiddlesticks.”

“Oh, and I need to pick up some salt water taffy for Big Linda.”

We all paid our 25 cents to see the spider girl. It was the discounted rate as we all saw that it had been a dollar earlier in the night. We literally stood transfixed as we tried to figure out how this lady’s head seemed to grow from the spider sewn together from pieces of black shaggy fabric. Then, the Chef pointed the mirror out to us.

“You know, that would have been a lot more believable if the spider had looked more realistic.”

“Do ya’ll wanna go out tonight?”

“We’ve done the fair. We might as well do the freak show too.”