It Might Be Gas

Swoon.

I've been smitten at least three times since I've moved to Memphis three months ago. But in less time than it takes to change my underwear, the feeling can pass. As Hotass and I used to quip, "I think I might be in love. But then again it just might be gas."

It's pretty typical for me. I go on date after date with perfect-for-someone-else guys, and end up disappointed, either in them (when it's not really their fault), or disappointed in myself because I have such high standards. And then I finally land on someone who appears to be Mr. Right, I can usually within a few dates find something wrong.

The Actor Guy was too girly and too much of a workaholic. The Jag Guy was too hung up on his ex. The Arkansas Guy was too bald and too needy. The Young Guy was too, well, young.

Enter Military Guy. Mmmm...swoon...woof...grrr. And I know there's something wrong with him. A little too gruff. Talks too much. But meanwhile, I'll be eager to figure out if this is just flatulence waiting to happen.

The Stars Offer An Explanation

From a special e-mail from Tarot.com...
"The Moon in emotionally dramatic Leo faces off against the coolness of the Aquarian Sun; we teeter back and forth between passion and rationality. At its best, though, this is a Full Moon of the intelligent heart, when love's fires are fed by a willingness to understand thoughts and feelings different from our own. Electric Uranus also makes an edgy quincunx (150-degree aspect) to the Moon right now, which can be associated with sudden changes of mood and circumstances, as well as restlessness."

Well, at least that explains this post.

And that "electric Uranus" thing explains why my butt tingles...

Mark My Words...

Men will ruin your life.

I've been single since May, and I'm trying to decide if I like it. Actually, I do love the freedom to go and come as I please. And to date. And -- hell, let's be honest -- to even f*ck around if I want to. It's really been great since I moved to Memphis. It's been a sweet taste of freedom.

But as usual, there is a man stuck in my carry-on baggage, and try as I might to lose him, he just keeps showing up.

Just when I think I can't be any more bitter... I mean after all, during the five years that we were together, not only did I discover that he was cheating on me numerous times, it just wasn't happy times. There was always a reason that we just couldn't be happy with one another. I'm fully capable of owning up to my part of this, but the infidelity was a piece I can't quite get over.

And just when I think I can't be any more bitter...I mean, c'mon, the nasty insults that were hurled back and forth, and the cheating, and the bullshit... don't I have every reason in the world to be bitter and angry and pissed off?

And when I'm about at my total bitterness capacity...I realize I miss the mutha-fucka, and all the bitterness hasn't killed the love.

And so even though I left his sorry ass in Nashville, today, when I was there, I thought I'd try to see him -- be friendly, you know. And I want you to know that I kicked myself at every mile marker between Nashville and Memphis (that's almost 200 in case you were wondering). And I had to talk myself out of shedding a single solitary tear. And that pang of jealousy when he spoke of the guys he had been seeing (with whom it WASN'T working out -- I'll control my glee).

But, at the same time, I wanted desperately to know that he wanted me back in his life, and that he missed me and loved me. And I wanted to tell him that missed him and loved him too.

Goddammit! I just don't understand it...

Something Amiss in Saigon

The B-Grade movie in my mind

Now I never professed to be a theatre queen, but I love a good showtune as much as the next guy. And Miss Saigon has always been one of my favorite musicals. A tragic story of love and war. Soaring and moving music. Plus, I've always had the hots for the male lead. In my book, it ranks right up there.

Well, imagine my surprise and my delight when a certain date-able young lad asked if I would accompany him to a performance of Miss Saigon at Memphis' world-famous Orpheum Theatre. Now, I should add here that DYL (Date-able Young Lad) is a theatre snob. He's a managing director of a theatre company here, and he gets comp tickets to Orpheum shows. I was in for a treat.

Take a look at that picture above. What do you notice about it? The sun, the face and ... oh yeah, look at that -- a bloody helicopter! If you've seen Miss Saigon, you know that the helicopter deserves a starring role. At a critical plot point in the show, a giant mechanical helicopter lowers itself to the stage in a blaze of lights and music to recreate the American evacuation of Saigon, tearing the two lovers apart. Dramatic and certainly one of the more memorable moments in Broadway.

This show didn't have the helicopter. That's like Phantom of the Opera without the chandelier. It's like Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat without the dreamcoat. It's like Rent without drag queens.

When the video screen rolled down, and the animated helicopter swung into view above the stage, I put my hand to my mouth, gasped, and quietly shook my head.

However, the show might have redeemed itself when Kim shot herself at the end. I've never seen a dead woman get so much air. She landed six feet away. It was hysterical.

Something You Gotta Know...

The time has come to share some critical information with the world.

Babies and mothers have known about these things since the dawn of time, and even I have "sat" on this little secret for a couple of years now. But I am here to share two little words that will change your life forever...

Booty Wipes

Yeah, I realize that people don't like to talk about number 2, but, as the saying goes, shit happens. And you need some booty wipes when it does.

What are booty wipes? They are a fresh breeze, a bidet in a box, a wet wipe, a moist towelette for your behind. But like I said, these aren't your regular baby wipes; these are for big boys and they're flushable!! And the ones I use can sit quietly in a discreet white plastic tub next to the toilet, ready for me or for my guest (should they feel the need to have a private moment in my apartment).

Why would you want to use a booty wipe? Why wouldn't you? Like HotAss says, stop tracks before they start. And I don't know you about you, but sometimes I just don't always feel as fresh as I would like. Toilet paper has its limitations. Booty wipes leaves the backside fresher and cleaner than you ever thought possible.

And let me tell ya...the booty wipe manufacturers are missing their target audience with gay men. You know how sensitive we are about our butts, and it only takes one embarrassing experience to scar you for life. I don't know why I'm not seeing full-page ads for booty wipes in Out, Genre, Instinct, The Advocate, and Vanity Fair.

I first shared these wonderful things with HotAss, and I was even with him to help him make his first purchase. And now we have made it our personal mission to share them with everyone we know. HotAss has grown so fond of them that he almost mistakenly used the Clorox wipes stashed next to the Dynamic Duo's toilet. I guarantee you that's a mistake he'd only make once.

Do yourself and everyone around you a favor. Look for booty wipes wherever toilet paper is sold.

The Most Fabulous Neighborhood

The view from the veranda

Apparently, I offended.

This past weekend, the Gaggle is sitting around at the Dynamic Duo's place, drinking every last drop of wine they have in the house. We sit, we bitch, we philosophize, we make fun. It's what we do and we do it well.

And, let me just tell you, that gay men as a group usually don't offend easily. You can talk casually about any number of traditionally offensive topics and most of my gay friends will just say, "Preach on, sister!" How the conversation turned to religion and blasphemers, I don't know. I see the window (although it looks a little fuzzy through four glasses of merlot) to tell the following joke:

Q: How does Jesus bite his nails?
The punchline is that the jokester pretends to gnaw the center of his palms.

The Gaggle laugh and then realize that they have gotten their Hell card stamped.

"Ooooooooohh," the Artist says, "you're going to Hell."

It was only slightly hypocritical coming from THAT one, but nevertheless, I had the rest of the weekend to ponder the error of my ways, and flip through Hell's real estate classifieds for my future digs.

Most were barely shacks. Costing only a few sins, they were affordable but miles away from downtown Hades. The lofts were, in my opinion, hardly livable, especially since the demon-traffic on the cobblestone streets below made it so difficult to sleep on your bed of nails.

And then I found the one on the shores of Lake of Fire. It's a magnificent piece of property, and surely with the sins I've accumulated in my 32 years of life, I can already afford my down payment.

If you're gonna live in Hell, live it up right.

3000 Steps to Graceland

Elvis Lives.

Graceland isn't really that impressive, just in case you were wondering. Not that I've been inside (yet), but the view from the sidewalk doesn't really reveal much more than "so what?"

Yesterday, in my ongoing attempts to feel like a true Memphian, I drove by Graceland, stopped, looked, and read some of the black magic marker scribblings on the wall (which should be the highlight of any stop at the King's mansion). And it just happened to coincide with Elvis's 70th birthday weekend, which brought Elvis impersonators from around the world...like this French guy...

Hunka-hunka burnin' l'amour... Le Roi lives...

The Password Is...

WOOF!

The word "woof" has become one of those gay peculiarities, and I have sold out and it pops out of my mouth at least 40 or 50 times a day. And every gay man knows exactly what it means. And in case you don't...Imagine this scenario...

HotAss and I are in the Pottery Barn Outlet (yeah, how much more gay can this be?), grazing our fingertips lightly over the leather chairs and carefully weighing the heft of wood (yeah, THAT gay), when out of the corner of our eyes, we see this guy. He's tall, maybe 6'3" or 6'4", broad shouldered -- a well-built kinda man. He's youngish - late 20s/early 30s. Baseball cap, hoodie sweatshirt, jeans and yellow heavy workboots. And kind of under our breath, but simultaneously, HotAss and I say "woof!"

Another scenario...I'm over at HotAss's, doing laundry and we're watching a movie, "All Over the Guy." Every time Richard Ruccolo appears on the screen, HotAss and I say "Woof!"

So apparently "hot" is the sole criteria for being woof-worthy... but not just "hot" -- there has to be an overtly masculine appearance, and for the most part, at least as HotAss and I agree, there must be some chest hair (although Richard Ruccolo appears to be hairless). And you'd never use WOOF as a sign of acclaim for some skinny, hairless, chihuahua-like boy. Justin Timberlake? Not a woof. Orlando Bloom? Not a woof. In my book, barely a whimper. Collin Farrell. WOOF. Hugh Jackman. WOOF. John Travolta. WOOF WOOF.

But why WOOF? Images of dogs sniffing each other's nether regions to determine likability come to mind, but then again, that's what gay men do... And I guess the best thing about WOOF is that we can say it without making a scene -- yet another subculture high-five that the straights have yet to corrupt...give it time...

P.S. I was only kidding on that John Travolta thing...

Meet Virginia...

It's sorta crazysexycool, don't ya think?

Yeah, that's me. Cool chunky turtleneck. Cool coffeehouse glasses. Cool smirk. Cool pose with cool girl.

You know the song, "Meet Virginia" by Train? Those are Virginia's lips.

Rest Like An Egyptian

Not the Great Pyramid. Not even Memphis. But definitely, this dude rocked into the afterlife.

This is a tomb/mausoleum/final resting place in Mt. Olivet Cemetery in Nashville. It's one of the oldest cemeteries in the city, and there are lots of famous people buried here (famous before country music, mind you). Anyway this tomb thing is by far one of the most interesting in the cemetery. And of course, I have to know...if he went to this much trouble just to look good in death, do you think he opted for the mummification thing too? Buried with his cats?

The End of the World is Nigh

My god, could the weather here in Memphis get any more freakin' bizarre? A freak ice/sleet/snow storm before Christmas that thaws a week later when the temps go from the teens straight to the 60s. Freakishly high temperatures for another week (high was 72 yesterday, shattering the old record set in 1955), and then today...it's only 36. What tha.??

I think this -- coupled with the tsunami and loss of life in Asia, the ongoing (and utterly ridiculous) war in the Middle East, and the fact that Dick Clark missed a Rockin' New Year's Eve-- God could finally be saying "Pay attention, fools! I'm growing weary of your antics."

Not that I'm overly religious, but let's face it -- the end of the world will come whether you believe in God or not...and sometimes God is just a good explanation for the unexplainable. And if the end of the world is coming, there's not much we can do about it. So we could either tremble in fear, or respectfully party right into oblivion. I'm not much for trembling.

So might as well pull up a comfy chair with some good friends, mix a tasty cocktail, watch the show and laugh a little...