Let's talk for just a minute about the bounty I gathered up at my dad's. It was like a vintage treasure trove.
I tackled my dad's closet to see what goodies he might have from, say, 1981. Certainly stuff that is now back in style. And what did I find...not one, not two, not even three...but six pearl-button shirts, even some with this great embroidery stuff on the back and over the front pockets. I found a great pair of polyester plaid pants. Now mind you, I rarely have the courage to wear something like this. Well the shirts maybe. The pants never, but who knows?
And then I raided his record collection. That's right. Not CDs. Not cassettes. But records. VINYL 78s. Wow. I found an original copy of "Johnny Cash at San Quentin."Apparently getting top dollar on Ebay. But this is one of the greatest albums ever made. And I don't even own a record player. HotAss can tell you I have an amusing album collection that I am choosing to display like art. So this Johnny Cash album and some of the others, including the soundtrack to the Elvis movie, "Paradise, Hawaiian Style" will make some stellar additions.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Like the Corners of My Mind
All my life, I've had these weird moments of deja vu. And everyone has them...it's that time that you're having a conversation with someone about something obscure, like Mt. Rushmore, and suddently you have that feeling that you've done that exact same thing before. It all seems very familiar. And it's never to the extent that I can predict what the person is going to say next, but it's all just eerie. Like the memory has been overlayed on real life.
However, it's strange. I never can tell if it's a memory of having done something before. Usually it feels like I've dreamed it before... so I call them dreamories. When I recall it, I can't recall actually having lived through the moment but it seems too detailed and too realistic to be just a dream.
My point to this is...over the weekend, I ventured to my quaint little hometown to visit Mama, and my dad and stepmom, for the first time since I moved to Memphis in October. And as I drive through town, I see buildings and places I once knew. And of course they hold distinct places in my memory, but the memories are becoming hazy (I blame this on drugs like X), and these places and buildings are almost like the backdrop of my current dreams.
It's strange, because I look at a building and get that feeling of deja vu, and my first instinct is that I visited that place in a dream. So everytime I go home, it's like deja vu for an entire weekend.
Now one of the most bizarre instances occured on the way back home. Let me preface all this by saying, about 10 years ago, I remember having a dream in which I was in a park at night, and I met a boy who was everything I had ever wanted. Throughout the dream I never saw his face, but I knew he was the ONE. A few weeks later, I was visiting home for the weekend, and some friends and I ventured to the big city of Florence, Alabama, for a night out. We ended up in a park -- at night -- in Florence. Yeah, it was sort of a cruisy park, but it was also sort of the local gay hangout. That night, I met someone there in the park and it was a strange sensation of deja vu. We clicked, I thought. The night ended and I invited him to visit me in my college town.
The next weekend, he arrived. But he was much more flamboyant than I recalled, and I spent most of the weekend trying to smother his flame with a big ol' "butch it up a bit" blanket. I was over him by Sunday morning and sent him along his "Mary" way. Only to have him call me six or seven times a day for the next three weeks, just to see how I was doing. I finally had to tell him not to call me ever again, and I never saw or heard from him again.
Now today, as I'm driving back to Memphis from my hometown, I charted a new course, wandering through North Alabama and Mississippi, driving down a highway that I had only driven down once before. Nature called, and I needed a pit stop. I saw a gas station up ahead, but I thought perhaps I could go a few more miles before I really needed to go. And then at the last minute, I decided why chance pissing my pants.
I swooped into the parking lot and entered the convenience store. The girl behind the counter greeted me, and I nodded and quickly asked for the men's room. She pointed, and another hand from behind the fried chicken warmer/display case pointed to the men's room as well. As I passed by the owner of the fried chicken hand, I immediately recognized the face as the little guy from the park 10 years earlier.
After the bathroom break, I wandered around the store looking for a snack, and I decided on some chicken fingers and potato wedges (YUM). He was outgoing and friendly, asking me where I was headed. I told him I was going to Memphis, and he gave me the thumbs up sign. "What a great city!" It was a little over the top but cute.
I paid for my snack and he told me to watch out for state troopers as I got close to the Mississippi state line, and wished me safe travels. I thanked him and returned to the road.
It was a bizarre moment that I chose to stop at that convenience store on a highway I hadn't ever traveled. I'm not sure if it means anything or not. I don't know if he recognized me. If he even acknowledges me, maybe I'll just be one of his dreamories.
---
On the subject of deja vu, I worked for a crazy lady once who never said "deja vu." Instead she always butchered it and said "vuja de." My coworkers would only snicker when she left the room. We decided that if "deja vu" was a feeling this had happened before, "vuja de" meant that this shit has NEVER happened.
However, it's strange. I never can tell if it's a memory of having done something before. Usually it feels like I've dreamed it before... so I call them dreamories. When I recall it, I can't recall actually having lived through the moment but it seems too detailed and too realistic to be just a dream.
My point to this is...over the weekend, I ventured to my quaint little hometown to visit Mama, and my dad and stepmom, for the first time since I moved to Memphis in October. And as I drive through town, I see buildings and places I once knew. And of course they hold distinct places in my memory, but the memories are becoming hazy (I blame this on drugs like X), and these places and buildings are almost like the backdrop of my current dreams.
It's strange, because I look at a building and get that feeling of deja vu, and my first instinct is that I visited that place in a dream. So everytime I go home, it's like deja vu for an entire weekend.
Now one of the most bizarre instances occured on the way back home. Let me preface all this by saying, about 10 years ago, I remember having a dream in which I was in a park at night, and I met a boy who was everything I had ever wanted. Throughout the dream I never saw his face, but I knew he was the ONE. A few weeks later, I was visiting home for the weekend, and some friends and I ventured to the big city of Florence, Alabama, for a night out. We ended up in a park -- at night -- in Florence. Yeah, it was sort of a cruisy park, but it was also sort of the local gay hangout. That night, I met someone there in the park and it was a strange sensation of deja vu. We clicked, I thought. The night ended and I invited him to visit me in my college town.
The next weekend, he arrived. But he was much more flamboyant than I recalled, and I spent most of the weekend trying to smother his flame with a big ol' "butch it up a bit" blanket. I was over him by Sunday morning and sent him along his "Mary" way. Only to have him call me six or seven times a day for the next three weeks, just to see how I was doing. I finally had to tell him not to call me ever again, and I never saw or heard from him again.
Now today, as I'm driving back to Memphis from my hometown, I charted a new course, wandering through North Alabama and Mississippi, driving down a highway that I had only driven down once before. Nature called, and I needed a pit stop. I saw a gas station up ahead, but I thought perhaps I could go a few more miles before I really needed to go. And then at the last minute, I decided why chance pissing my pants.
I swooped into the parking lot and entered the convenience store. The girl behind the counter greeted me, and I nodded and quickly asked for the men's room. She pointed, and another hand from behind the fried chicken warmer/display case pointed to the men's room as well. As I passed by the owner of the fried chicken hand, I immediately recognized the face as the little guy from the park 10 years earlier.
After the bathroom break, I wandered around the store looking for a snack, and I decided on some chicken fingers and potato wedges (YUM). He was outgoing and friendly, asking me where I was headed. I told him I was going to Memphis, and he gave me the thumbs up sign. "What a great city!" It was a little over the top but cute.
I paid for my snack and he told me to watch out for state troopers as I got close to the Mississippi state line, and wished me safe travels. I thanked him and returned to the road.
It was a bizarre moment that I chose to stop at that convenience store on a highway I hadn't ever traveled. I'm not sure if it means anything or not. I don't know if he recognized me. If he even acknowledges me, maybe I'll just be one of his dreamories.
---
On the subject of deja vu, I worked for a crazy lady once who never said "deja vu." Instead she always butchered it and said "vuja de." My coworkers would only snicker when she left the room. We decided that if "deja vu" was a feeling this had happened before, "vuja de" meant that this shit has NEVER happened.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Mommie Always Knows
and she knows this ain't your first rodeo.
My mother doesn't know I'm gay. Well, not that we've discussed, but Mama has always "known" about her baby boy.
Let's face it...I was always the sensitive child, last picked for kickball, an avid reader (i.e. geek), had girls as my best pals, wanted a Ken doll one year for Christmas, and I cried when I had to wear the red corduroy bellbottom pants (although now they would have been fabulous).
Nevertheless, I never felt the need to tell Mama about which side my bread was buttered on. And so I went about my adult life, and Mama never questioned why my relationships with girls didn't work out, or why I always had male roommates, or any of that stuff.
Even once when Mama and her sisters visited HotAss and I for Thanksgiving dinner, Mama and The Sisters never once questioned how two young 20ish men decorated a table so elaborately and made a meal so delicious (okay, so HotAss did it all...I just made a mess out of the mashed potatoes.)
Fast forward several years to eve of moving in with my new beau. I'm in my old apartment, packing up, when there is a knock at the door. Lo and behold, there stands Mama and The Sisters. Well, of course they want to see my new place. On the way over, I call the beau and tell him that Mama and the Sisters are with me to see the new apartment. Intuitively, he asks if there's anything he should "pick up." My mind flashes to the pictures of us cuddling in Key West or the holiday pictures of us together or the customary naked man photos that hang in the bathroom. Yes, you should definitely hide those things.
I give them the grand tour, always staying a few steps ahead, just in case there should be some "de-gaying" that needed to take place. As I step into the kitchen with Mama and The Sisters in tow, I spot the naked man photos on the kitchen counter, awaiting their rightful spot in the bathroom. I catch the Beau's eyes across the room and give him the look that says "GET THESE OUT OF MY SIGHT!" Expertly and swifty, he intercepts us and creates a diversion while he casually flips the pictures over. Crisis number one averted.
The Beau returns to the room that we will eventually share and starts hanging curtains while I finish the tour. Mama comments that "his" room will be completely decorated before I even get a stick of furniture moved into "my" room - the other bedroom. Again, I catch the Beau's eyes and we make love-y faces, smirking at Mama's naivete.
Once back in the car and driving back to my apartment, Mama speaks.
"James, can I ask you something?"
Oh boy, here it comes. Please don't do this in front of The Sisters. Any other time, just not now.
"Last week, I was at the funeral home..."
Oh, God knows what people talk about in a small town. And a funeral is a good time to drag out somebody's dirty laundry. Who, at a funeral home, told you I was gay?
"And someone brought in a beautiful flower arrangement."
Oh so it has to do with the gays and their knack for flower arranging.
This whole exchange was working me into quite a state, wondering where in gay hell this might possibly be going.
"And right in the middle was a big sunflower. Somebody said that it meant something. What do you think it means?"
IT MEANS THAT YOUR YOUNGEST SON IS A FLAMING HOMOSEXUAL! THAT'S WHAT IT MEANS! I'VE BEEN MEANING TO TELL YOU FOR YEARS! GET IT? SUNFLOWER = SON. FLOWER ARRANGEMENT = GAY. I'M GAY, MAMA! I'M GAY!
I looked up in the rearview mirror to see if she was serious, and she was. She really wanted to know what the sunflower meant.
"Well, Mama, I don't know what it means. I've never heard of such a thing."
"Oh well, I just thought you might," she said, and the conversation ended.
But somehow, I think she knew I was lying. Mama always knows.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Reasons Why
Tonight, I had a date. And while he seemed like a nice enough guy - settled, professional, sweet - allow me to be superficial for a moment and recount the reasons it wouldn't work.
- He lives an hour away.
- He wouldn't tell me how old he is.
- He didn't know who Alanis Morrisette is.
- I think he's smooth (i.e. not hairy).
- His belt was black. His shoes were brown.
- He rarely drinks.
- He doesn't believe in ghosts.
- When we kissed good night, I saw his tongue before our lips touched.
Seems like eight reasons why I shouldn't go out with him again. And so I ask those of you who know me, what do you think?
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Note to Self
Dear Self,
Perhaps you might want to be more careful in the future about mixing Xanax, Lexapro and red wine.
Waking up in bed and not having a clue how you got there is only amusing for about 30 seconds. Realizing you're naked and being unsure if you undressed myself is good for another 10 or so.
And then you remembered that you, Ethan and HotAss actually did go to The Pumping Station, but that seems like a flickering memory and you aren't sure how you got there or how you got home.
And the half-eaten Wendy's burger on the dining room table indicates that perhaps you stopped for food, and you vaguely remember handing HotAss the ATM card to pay for the burger.
And you wonder if the kitchen is a wreck as you remember that HotAss and Ethan had been sitting in the living room last night, drinking vodka tonics and eating cheese. But surprisingly, the only reminders are the yellow Wendy napkins, an unopened bottle of cranberry juice, and an almost-empty bottle of Merlot.
And you do a self-check for unexplained bruises, scratches, missing appendages, etc. and realize that for a wild drunk, you have no hangover and feel like a million bucks. So you hop in the shower, do a little singing, get dressed without a care in the world.
Except one...Did you do anything stupid last night? Did you embarrass yourself (except for the red wine stain on the front of your shirt)? HotAss and Ethan will have to fill you in.
Perhaps you might want to be more careful in the future about mixing Xanax, Lexapro and red wine.
Waking up in bed and not having a clue how you got there is only amusing for about 30 seconds. Realizing you're naked and being unsure if you undressed myself is good for another 10 or so.
And then you remembered that you, Ethan and HotAss actually did go to The Pumping Station, but that seems like a flickering memory and you aren't sure how you got there or how you got home.
And the half-eaten Wendy's burger on the dining room table indicates that perhaps you stopped for food, and you vaguely remember handing HotAss the ATM card to pay for the burger.
And you wonder if the kitchen is a wreck as you remember that HotAss and Ethan had been sitting in the living room last night, drinking vodka tonics and eating cheese. But surprisingly, the only reminders are the yellow Wendy napkins, an unopened bottle of cranberry juice, and an almost-empty bottle of Merlot.
And you do a self-check for unexplained bruises, scratches, missing appendages, etc. and realize that for a wild drunk, you have no hangover and feel like a million bucks. So you hop in the shower, do a little singing, get dressed without a care in the world.
Except one...Did you do anything stupid last night? Did you embarrass yourself (except for the red wine stain on the front of your shirt)? HotAss and Ethan will have to fill you in.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Highly Inappropriate
One of my employees is the epitome of Southern ladyhood. Unlike KimDog, Ms. JCE, didn't quite fail as a Southern belle, but she seems to come pretty close. Connected to every well-to-do family in Memphis, I hired her because she is socially connected. But I do know that she is somewhat of a black sheep. On her first day in the office, I caught her five-fingering a bottle of wine that had been donated for a gala, to which I could only whisper, "go ahead. It's not properly cellared anyway." She also dated Elvis, but that's another story.
Today, after a particular rough meeting that tried every ounce of my patient, I got in the car and turned to one of my employees and apologized for my French.
"I'm so fucking pissed off, I could just spit," I fumed. "If I could have, I would have gotten up from the table and knocked that C-U-Next-Tuesday for a loop."
"C-U-Next-Tuesday?" she asks.
"Yeah, C-U-N..." I trailed off and left the last letter to her.
"Oh I totally agree. She's a bee-yotch and a c-u-next-tuesday," she agreed. "Would you like some Xanax? I have some in my purse."
Somehow, I think we crossed a line.
Today, after a particular rough meeting that tried every ounce of my patient, I got in the car and turned to one of my employees and apologized for my French.
"I'm so fucking pissed off, I could just spit," I fumed. "If I could have, I would have gotten up from the table and knocked that C-U-Next-Tuesday for a loop."
"C-U-Next-Tuesday?" she asks.
"Yeah, C-U-N..." I trailed off and left the last letter to her.
"Oh I totally agree. She's a bee-yotch and a c-u-next-tuesday," she agreed. "Would you like some Xanax? I have some in my purse."
Somehow, I think we crossed a line.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
A Thought on "Do Queers Like Tits?"
The Secret Diary of a Closeted Southern Baptist: Do Queers Like Tits?
Well, hasn't my good friend Ethan posed an interesting question? Do pillow-biters love the bodacious ta-tas? And why?
I certainly find boobies fascinating, but not exactly arousing. I don't want to watch Abbott and Costello jiggling around on a "Girls Gone Wild" tape, but with certain honeys I've had, the heavy duty honeydews are so much fun to touch, and look at, and bounce.
I don't want to lightly trace circles around the aerola and suck the nipple into firmness (I save that for people with a little more hair around the nipple), but there is something about the hidden loaves of love, under bra and under sweater, that makes them somewhat of a plaything.
I had a gay male friend state, "if I had boobs, I'd never leave the house. I'd just lay around and play with them all day." Maybe it's just the fun of having water balloons or a Koosh (remember those?) attached to your body.
Why they appeal to gay men? I don't have a clue. And actually I just think it's a carryover from adolescence, a time when we were supposed to be intrigued with a good rack. For whatever reason, as we grew up and men and their anatomy took center-stage, the torpedoes remained an item of curiosity.
It's not a sexual thing. I certainly don't want a guy with man-tits.
But I've never seen a flat-chested homo honey either.
It could be worse. The gays could have a fascination with camel toes. (Actually I think the Dynamic Duo does.)
Well, hasn't my good friend Ethan posed an interesting question? Do pillow-biters love the bodacious ta-tas? And why?
I certainly find boobies fascinating, but not exactly arousing. I don't want to watch Abbott and Costello jiggling around on a "Girls Gone Wild" tape, but with certain honeys I've had, the heavy duty honeydews are so much fun to touch, and look at, and bounce.
I don't want to lightly trace circles around the aerola and suck the nipple into firmness (I save that for people with a little more hair around the nipple), but there is something about the hidden loaves of love, under bra and under sweater, that makes them somewhat of a plaything.
I had a gay male friend state, "if I had boobs, I'd never leave the house. I'd just lay around and play with them all day." Maybe it's just the fun of having water balloons or a Koosh (remember those?) attached to your body.
Why they appeal to gay men? I don't have a clue. And actually I just think it's a carryover from adolescence, a time when we were supposed to be intrigued with a good rack. For whatever reason, as we grew up and men and their anatomy took center-stage, the torpedoes remained an item of curiosity.
It's not a sexual thing. I certainly don't want a guy with man-tits.
But I've never seen a flat-chested homo honey either.
It could be worse. The gays could have a fascination with camel toes. (Actually I think the Dynamic Duo does.)
Still Talking About the Heart
I present to you Stephen Crane's The Heart, and then I'll stop with this heart business for a while. This poem amuses me. Discuss.
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked,
bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter—bitter,"
he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is
my heart."
Monday, February 14, 2005
I Heart Grease
I've been doing a lot of thought about my heart lately...both the physical organ and the figurative, poetic center of emotion. And, as I dine on deep fried chicken fingers and french fries, I've decided...what better day than Valentine's Day than to release my findings.
This baby is a ticking time bomb.
At my physical in December, my cholesterol came back high - 238 when it should be no higher than 200. My arteries are a grease trap. HotAss insists that I should eat my oatmeal everyday, but that goddamn smug Quaker smiling back me just pisses me off. And let's be honest...a heaping bowl of oatmeal feels like wet papier mache moving through your guts. So when it comes to my cholesterol, I'm only giving it a half-hearted effort (HA!). I can't get enough grease in my diet, and I can feel my arteries hardening as we speak.
I've decided that it's not only my arteries turning into concrete viaducts, but my heart must be hardening too. (Go ahead, hum a little Quarterflash here.)
I've heard so many references to my cold, black, cast-iron heart lately, there might be something to it.
This baby is a ticking time bomb.
At my physical in December, my cholesterol came back high - 238 when it should be no higher than 200. My arteries are a grease trap. HotAss insists that I should eat my oatmeal everyday, but that goddamn smug Quaker smiling back me just pisses me off. And let's be honest...a heaping bowl of oatmeal feels like wet papier mache moving through your guts. So when it comes to my cholesterol, I'm only giving it a half-hearted effort (HA!). I can't get enough grease in my diet, and I can feel my arteries hardening as we speak.
I've decided that it's not only my arteries turning into concrete viaducts, but my heart must be hardening too. (Go ahead, hum a little Quarterflash here.)
I've heard so many references to my cold, black, cast-iron heart lately, there might be something to it.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Friday Evening
It wasn't the most exciting Friday night on record, but it was fun and relaxing.
HotAss picked me up and we met T-man and some of his colleagues/out-of-towners for barbecue. Believe it or not, it was the first time I've eaten bbq since I moved to Memphis. T-man is a choirmaster, organist and composer, so his colleagues are churchy types. But fun not-uptight churchy types because they're Episcopal.
And I have decided that Episcopals like to make fun of themselves. You'd never hear a Baptist making fun of the pastor, or themselves. Which is why it was so funny when the group started swapping stories about pastors, priests and rectors.
And the prize for best story of the night goes to:
In one particular church, the ladies took turn making communion bread, and as ladies are apt to do, trying to one-up the other with brand new recipes. One particular woman made raisin bread, and as the priest raised the bread and broke it before the congregation, he was taken by surprise by the tiny pieces of shriveled fruit and said, "There are goddamn raisins in here." But he composed himself and continued, "May the Lord be with you."
HotAss picked me up and we met T-man and some of his colleagues/out-of-towners for barbecue. Believe it or not, it was the first time I've eaten bbq since I moved to Memphis. T-man is a choirmaster, organist and composer, so his colleagues are churchy types. But fun not-uptight churchy types because they're Episcopal.
And I have decided that Episcopals like to make fun of themselves. You'd never hear a Baptist making fun of the pastor, or themselves. Which is why it was so funny when the group started swapping stories about pastors, priests and rectors.
And the prize for best story of the night goes to:
In one particular church, the ladies took turn making communion bread, and as ladies are apt to do, trying to one-up the other with brand new recipes. One particular woman made raisin bread, and as the priest raised the bread and broke it before the congregation, he was taken by surprise by the tiny pieces of shriveled fruit and said, "There are goddamn raisins in here." But he composed himself and continued, "May the Lord be with you."
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Woof-Worthy #2
Living on the Edge
Mmmm, now this is a man that holds a special place in my heart. The Edge from U2. The cowboy hat is much sexier than the knit cap, I think. Either way, he is damn sexy.
I still haven't found what I'm looking for...
Wednesday, February 9, 2005
What's in a Name?
Q: Why do you call HotAss "HotAss"?
A: Because he's never in one place for long. His ass is too hot to sit still.
Q: Why does HotAss call you "Skipper"?
A: Because, when we go out, I usually end up playing Rhoda to his Mary, Shirley to his Laverne, Skipper to his Barbie. That HotAss Barbie bitch has everything and gets all the cute Kens -- well, usually.
A: Because he's never in one place for long. His ass is too hot to sit still.
Q: Why does HotAss call you "Skipper"?
A: Because, when we go out, I usually end up playing Rhoda to his Mary, Shirley to his Laverne, Skipper to his Barbie. That HotAss Barbie bitch has everything and gets all the cute Kens -- well, usually.
He Says, He Says
Well so about 7:30 p.m. on Sunday, I finally hear from Military Guy with a cryptic message that says "been busy. family trouble. will fill u in later." I reply with "call when you can."
Now, just a few weeks ago, I read He's Just Not That Into You, the dating guide for single girls which is easily translated to gay men. A very memorable line says "Busy is just another word for asshole. Asshole is just another word for the guy you've been seeing." A man who is into you should never be so busy that he can't call. These are technologically advanced days, and between cell phones and text messages and e-mails, there really is no excuse. I told HotAss, even if his mother is dead and he's standing in the morgue identifying her body, technology makes it easy to send a message saying "Mom's Ded. Talk 2 U after the wake"
So naturally I took his lack of communication as a sign that he just wasn't into me, and that's ok.
Monday came and went, and no word from him. Bear in mind, that I hadn't really talked to him since Friday afternoon, and I understood that he was going to go with me to the Mardi Gras party. So Tuesday a.m., I send a quick little note, wishing him well but that was the last time I was going to contact him. Which got his attention.
He says he didn't get any of my messages over the weekend, because he was out in the country, and cell phone service is next to nothing out there. And he says he completely and totally forgot about the party because when he wasn't in the country, he was on base. He apologized. He promised that he wasn't flaking out and that he was into me. I let him take me to dinner last night, and I brought him back to my place so that he could beg for my forgiveness.
He's forgiven...this time. Just so you know, I AM keeping score. And he has one strike against him.
Now, just a few weeks ago, I read He's Just Not That Into You, the dating guide for single girls which is easily translated to gay men. A very memorable line says "Busy is just another word for asshole. Asshole is just another word for the guy you've been seeing." A man who is into you should never be so busy that he can't call. These are technologically advanced days, and between cell phones and text messages and e-mails, there really is no excuse. I told HotAss, even if his mother is dead and he's standing in the morgue identifying her body, technology makes it easy to send a message saying "Mom's Ded. Talk 2 U after the wake"
So naturally I took his lack of communication as a sign that he just wasn't into me, and that's ok.
Monday came and went, and no word from him. Bear in mind, that I hadn't really talked to him since Friday afternoon, and I understood that he was going to go with me to the Mardi Gras party. So Tuesday a.m., I send a quick little note, wishing him well but that was the last time I was going to contact him. Which got his attention.
He says he didn't get any of my messages over the weekend, because he was out in the country, and cell phone service is next to nothing out there. And he says he completely and totally forgot about the party because when he wasn't in the country, he was on base. He apologized. He promised that he wasn't flaking out and that he was into me. I let him take me to dinner last night, and I brought him back to my place so that he could beg for my forgiveness.
He's forgiven...this time. Just so you know, I AM keeping score. And he has one strike against him.
Monday, February 7, 2005
Sum Yung Guy with a Side of Woof, Please
Happy Chinese New Year! Okay, actually it's tomorrow but...
We officially enter the Year of the Green Chicken (which is almost as funny as the Year of the Monkey Turd. Well, we are exiting the Year of the Monkey -- so exiting the Monkey...hmm... maybe this really is the Year of the Monkey Turd).
Anyway...We've American-ized the year and tradtionally call it the Year of the Rooster. And if you're gay, that means it's the Year of the Cock.
Well, it's about damn time.
The placemat down at the Happy China Garden Dragon Moon Panda Butt Restaurant tells me that I was born in the Year of the Rat. And this is my shiny happy fortune for the Year of the Cock/Rooster/Green Chicken/Monkey Turd...
All in all, 2005 should be a profitable year for the hoarding Rat species. You’ll not be daunted by the Rooster’s rigor as you know how to stock up and save for the rainiest days. Love will enter the picture for you this year. A passionate, long-lasting relationship could mean marriage - and even children! Make sure you check out possible partners among Dragons and Monkeys. They know best how to tickle your whiskers. (...in bed).
Dragons and Monkeys, please form the line to the right. My whiskers are ready to be tickled.
We officially enter the Year of the Green Chicken (which is almost as funny as the Year of the Monkey Turd. Well, we are exiting the Year of the Monkey -- so exiting the Monkey...hmm... maybe this really is the Year of the Monkey Turd).
Anyway...We've American-ized the year and tradtionally call it the Year of the Rooster. And if you're gay, that means it's the Year of the Cock.
Well, it's about damn time.
The placemat down at the Happy China Garden Dragon Moon Panda Butt Restaurant tells me that I was born in the Year of the Rat. And this is my shiny happy fortune for the Year of the Cock/Rooster/Green Chicken/Monkey Turd...
All in all, 2005 should be a profitable year for the hoarding Rat species. You’ll not be daunted by the Rooster’s rigor as you know how to stock up and save for the rainiest days. Love will enter the picture for you this year. A passionate, long-lasting relationship could mean marriage - and even children! Make sure you check out possible partners among Dragons and Monkeys. They know best how to tickle your whiskers. (...in bed).
Dragons and Monkeys, please form the line to the right. My whiskers are ready to be tickled.
Sunday, February 6, 2005
A Hell of a Night
Last night was the Mardi Gras party. Huge masquerade affair. Hundreds of people milling around a Victorian home, all disguised so that you really had no idea who the man was behind the mask. The Dynamic Duo were Dionysian revelers. T-man was a Ragin' Cajun. HotAss and Brentcess were in camo. JonJon was in black, complete with black feather boa -- sort of leather daddy meets showgirl. And I was a younger, hipper version of the Prince of Darkness. We were hot. Why, oh why, didn't I get pictures?
But now that the night has ended, there are some very important points to make.
#1: I can't find my glasses. They are somewhere in the city of Memphis in a little blue zipper make-up bag, along with the contact lens solution and the contact lens case. I'm hoping they're at T-man's on the end table, but if they're not, I don't have a clue where they are. If anyone finds them, please return them.
But now that the night has ended, there are some very important points to make.
#1: I can't find my glasses. They are somewhere in the city of Memphis in a little blue zipper make-up bag, along with the contact lens solution and the contact lens case. I'm hoping they're at T-man's on the end table, but if they're not, I don't have a clue where they are. If anyone finds them, please return them.
#2: I can't get this damn eyeliner off. I look like a heroin addict that was fathered by a raccoon. And I have spirit gum in my eyebrows.
#3: I saw this guy at the party who lives in my building. I've been trying to figure him out since he moved in. My gaydar was broken on this one, until he showed up at the party with boy in #5. As we were chatting, he said he was trying to figure me out as well, until he saw me with Pottery Barn bags. Busted by the Barn.
#4: Apparently, it WAS gas after all. At least for him. He was supposed to go the party with me, but he decided it was more fun to stand me up. OH...NOW I GET IT!! I was actually smitten with him. That's why he disappeared into thin air.
#5: I got a phone number from a cute boy last night at the party. We chatted briefly, and as he was leaving, he asked if he could give me his number. Cute.
#6: I went out dancing last night after the party, looking like hell in my latex devil horns. HotAss and Brentcess somehow got lost at Taco Bell, and never showed. I danced alone for most of the night, and I really didn't care. It was actually rather liberating, even though I was still seething from being stood up. I imagined my heart growing blacker and harder with every beat.
#7: As I was leaving the club last night, the security guard says to me, "you look like you had a helluva night."
You have no idea.
Friday, February 4, 2005
Woof-Worthy #1
Justin Brown from TLC's "In a Fix"
I've taken Scott's cue over at Sardonic Bomb (okay, I've stolen the idea and the above pic), and will begin periodic highlights of "men I'd like to mess around with."
I rarely watch "In a Fix" but when I do my eyes are always fixated on this guy. On the show, he's a carpenter and boy, do I have something for him to hammer.
(Wow, that was tacky.)
Rollin' with tha Honeys
Few people are more important to the development of a gay man than his honeys, his HOMO-honeys. I actually prefer that term to the more derisive "fag hag." And tell you that I've been a homo-honey whore. I've had several in my tenure as a sorta-out-and-mostly-proud gay man. And each one holds a special sweet spot in my homo-heart.
Kym - She was my first, even when she didn't know she was the first. Hell, I didn't even know she was the first. Back in high school, it was a love-hate relationship. She loved me, and I didn't particularly like her, but we were drawn to each other. She was the first person I actually came out to (and that's another story for another time). Now she's married with a child, and remarkably, we still stay in touch.
Jennifer - Ah, bless her sweet little heart. If any homo-honey was smacked with the curse of the pink wand, it was her. A college friend, she was one of the first people I came out to (actually I was outed to her, but again, another story, another time). If I had been straight, I'd have married her, and we'd have had the perfect suburban life. I questioned the sexuality of every guy she dated, and even the guy she eventually married. But our friendship eventually deteriorated after she got hitched. Oddly, we just didn't have that much in common any more.
Virginia - Probably the greatest homo-honey of them all. The Grace to my Will, She gets a bronze bust in the Homo-Honey Hall of Fame, right up there with Liza Minelli. She was supportive and critical, and loved to watch award shows, and indulge in nights of Miss Clairol hair color and mud masks. She could hang out in gay bars, and share make-up tips with drag queens. She had a bevy of beautiful gay boys with whom she spent many fabulous and festive holidays. And then real life settled in. Boys got boyfriends, and people drifted away. The Family was ripped apart. And then she married and moved away.
Amy - Boy, did I hate leaving her when I left Nashville. She was the pretty-in-pink, ex-sorority, nails-always-done, Mary-Englebreit (ick) girly-girl, and typically I would have avoided her like the 60-year-old barfly in the black satin baseball jacket. But she just had the personality I couldn't resist. There was just a little bit of hellraiser about her, and it helped that her office was just a rubberband-shot away. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't have kicked down the closet door at a work function. Yet, another story, another time, but highly embarrassing.
And now I'm in Memphis where I am surrounded by some pretty dog-gone wonderful friends, but I miss my honeys. Every gay man needs a honey in his life, sipping cowboy cocksuckers on the sofa, with perfectly painted toes, watching the Golden Globes or Sex and the City, talking about cute boys, bitching about work, gossiping about our friends, taking Cosmo quizzes, and wishing life never had to push us on.
Kym - She was my first, even when she didn't know she was the first. Hell, I didn't even know she was the first. Back in high school, it was a love-hate relationship. She loved me, and I didn't particularly like her, but we were drawn to each other. She was the first person I actually came out to (and that's another story for another time). Now she's married with a child, and remarkably, we still stay in touch.
Jennifer - Ah, bless her sweet little heart. If any homo-honey was smacked with the curse of the pink wand, it was her. A college friend, she was one of the first people I came out to (actually I was outed to her, but again, another story, another time). If I had been straight, I'd have married her, and we'd have had the perfect suburban life. I questioned the sexuality of every guy she dated, and even the guy she eventually married. But our friendship eventually deteriorated after she got hitched. Oddly, we just didn't have that much in common any more.
Virginia - Probably the greatest homo-honey of them all. The Grace to my Will, She gets a bronze bust in the Homo-Honey Hall of Fame, right up there with Liza Minelli. She was supportive and critical, and loved to watch award shows, and indulge in nights of Miss Clairol hair color and mud masks. She could hang out in gay bars, and share make-up tips with drag queens. She had a bevy of beautiful gay boys with whom she spent many fabulous and festive holidays. And then real life settled in. Boys got boyfriends, and people drifted away. The Family was ripped apart. And then she married and moved away.
Amy - Boy, did I hate leaving her when I left Nashville. She was the pretty-in-pink, ex-sorority, nails-always-done, Mary-Englebreit (ick) girly-girl, and typically I would have avoided her like the 60-year-old barfly in the black satin baseball jacket. But she just had the personality I couldn't resist. There was just a little bit of hellraiser about her, and it helped that her office was just a rubberband-shot away. If it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't have kicked down the closet door at a work function. Yet, another story, another time, but highly embarrassing.
And now I'm in Memphis where I am surrounded by some pretty dog-gone wonderful friends, but I miss my honeys. Every gay man needs a honey in his life, sipping cowboy cocksuckers on the sofa, with perfectly painted toes, watching the Golden Globes or Sex and the City, talking about cute boys, bitching about work, gossiping about our friends, taking Cosmo quizzes, and wishing life never had to push us on.
Wednesday, February 2, 2005
It Might Be Gas, Part Deux
Three days. Three dates. Three overnight visits. Two romantic interludes (wink-wink, nudge-nudge). But who's counting?
And three dates are about my maximum on a guy, and by that point, I've decided what might happen from there. But I'm still smitten with this one. Even though he's been completely forthcoming about absolutely everything, there's still something mysterious and hidden about this one, and it's intriguing.
So far, it's not gas.
And three dates are about my maximum on a guy, and by that point, I've decided what might happen from there. But I'm still smitten with this one. Even though he's been completely forthcoming about absolutely everything, there's still something mysterious and hidden about this one, and it's intriguing.
So far, it's not gas.
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