Lightning Crashes

Something happened this week. Nothing extraordinary, but have you ever had those moments when something clicked, and it was from that moment that things suddenly started to make a bit more sense.

I'll admit. The last two years have been incredibly difficult for me. The emotional rollercoaster that was my last relationship, a thrill ride that ended last May. But like dumbasses, we continued to live with one another. And then there was the job offer that would bring me to Memphis. And it was also something that brought out the worst in us. Then there was the move to Memphis. While it was something that I wanted, it was a big move for me. The job was a promotion into unchartered territory for me. Managing newbie employees under everyone's watchful eyes, and honestly wondering if I was up for the challenge. Frankly, the stress has reached an all-time high, and my self-esteem has taken a terrible nosedive.

This week, I've been out of town all week in Nashville for a division-wide supervisor's conference. Lots of pep talk. Lots of work talk. Lots of seeing co-workers I see a few times a year and lots of hearing "How's Memphis." For me, lots of being "on."

One night while I was there, I had one of the most vivid dreams. In the dream, I was following a group of about six people, around the edge of a lake at some sort of camp or resort. Behind us, I could see the lights of the cabins. The sky through the trees was a dark purple, and the air smelled as though a storm was about to roll over the lake. The thunder was rumbling more frequently, and we see the occasional flash of lightning behind a cloud.

I don't remember who was in the group, except T-man and the girl in the gauzy floral skirt and cute flip-flops. We were half-running, half-speedwalking through the woods around the edge of the lake away from the cabins.

T-man was leading the group and was just a few steps ahead of me. While he was leading, he was extremely hesitant, fretting about how close the lightning was and how we were surely going to be struck.

In the dream, I remember thinking how foolish that was. Sure, people get struck by lightning, but what are the chances that we would be hit?

About that time, a bolt of lightning landed squarely in my back. I was thrown forward, and landed face down in pine needles. After making sure I wasn't dead, I noticed the most excruciating pain, and spewed forth a stream of cuss words in bizarre combinations.

"CUNTSHITMOTHERHELLGODDAMNTOALLTOMOTHERCOCKSUCKINGSHITJESUSCHRIST! OHMYGODTHATFUCKINGHURTS!"

The rest of my party kept their distance. I think, mostly, because of the cussing.

The next part of the dream is a little fuzzy, but it seems like I was at a picnic table in a large hall. Perhaps the main lodge at the camp. The ceilings were high and the sheetrock walls were yellow. People were sitting around me, asking about being struck by lightning. And while I heard their questions, I still wasn't quite ready to answer because I was focused on the tingling. And I knew I just had to try something.

I pointed my hands out in front of me, like a goober, and concentrated, and moved the salt shaker across the table.

"Sweet," I think. I pointed across the room and moved a glass of water across someone else's table. I began to think of what my superhero name should be, even though all I could do is move a table setting to the person sitting next to you.

To develop my skills, I stepped into the hallway and pointed my hands at the overhead lights. The bulb slowly dimmed, flashed and went out. The girl in the floral skirt gasped and jumped up and down.

And then the wake-up call woke me up.

I've felt different since then. More energized and empowered. So maybe I had a sub-conscious turning point. However, there are still a few details to be clarified. LIke why was T-man there. Where were we going? And what made the girl's flops so cute?

At any rate, I hope this feeling lasts.

In other news...
The move to the new apartment is tomorrow. Hotass can attest how panicky a move makes me. Back in Nashville, he and I moved three times, and each time the anxiety attacks came more and more frequently. Since then, I've noticed that my best defense against moving is denial and avoidance. Anyway, TimeWarner has told me that they won't transfer my cable and Internet service until next Friday. This move is more stressful than it should be.

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According to Blogger, this is my 100th post. I can't think of any activity but one that I've done at least 100 times. And I contributed to this spinoff - memphisgaggle.blogspot.com.

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Last but not least, I want to tell you folks that drop by on a regular basis how much I appreciate you. Thanks for thinking my life is interesting enough to read about.

Finally, We're Getting to the Bottom of Things

I can't say I'm necessarily surprised by the results. And, after last weekend's impromptu song about my sexual preferences sung to the tune of Pink's "God Is A DJ," my friends probably won't be surprised by the findings of this peculiar quiz.

In an effort to further probe the depths of my personality (assuming I have any), I took this quiz: Which Gay Sex Act Are You?

If my personality were to be a gay sex act, I would be:

Getting Fucked in the Ass! You have always been attracted to Eastern philosophies, since your attitude is to take things as they come. Some would say you bend over when the going gets tough; you prefer to see it as rolling with the punches. And you have always been open to new things — particularly big ones.

Woof-Worthy #9 - Silent but Deadly

The Transporter was one of those movies that managed to quietly slip by most everyone. But one Sunday afternoon, I was stuck at home and I happened to catch it on one of the movie channels, and a new lust was born.

Jason Statham. He doesn't say much in the movie, but he kicks some serious ass. And I swoon with every punch, kick and snarl.

In case you missed The Transporter, he's been in a couple of Guy Ritchie movies (ah, a Madonna connection) - Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Snatch, as well as The Italian Job and Cellular. None of which I have seen.

However, he is coming soon to a theatre near you in The Tranporter 2 and The Brazilian Job. It might be worth the eight bucks to catch this man in action again.

Q&A

Q: Why is The Pink Lady so shocked?

A. Because somebody has a big mouth.

Hot Diggity

Yes, that's a weenie roller.

Just like you'd find in the 7-11. And yeah, that's a nacho box with the cheese dispenser. Just like you'd find in the 7-11.

Somehow, the 7-11 themed birthday party for the Artist really was a surprise. Hell, I blogged about it. We've teased him about it for months. And when the weekend before his birthday and the actual birthday came and went without a function, he was fit to be tied. The Chef says he sulked all week.

And so he was actually surprised to find 7-11 logos all over the house. And to find his picture plastered on a 3'x3' sign. And red, orange and green streamers festooning the dining room chandelier. And all the guests took turns having their photos made behind a cut-out that said "7-11 Employee of the Month." And interspersed in the evening's music were commercials urging the guests to take home a gallon of milk, try a Big Bite hot dog or a Slurpee. And all party-goers received t-shirts with the 7-11 logo, courtesy of Pistol Pete.

However, I am disappointed we didn't play Duck, Duck, Mongoose.

Oh well, I guess there's always next year.

Suds and Duds

I don't mind doing laundry as long as I have a washer and dryer at home, but since I moved to Memphis, I haven't had a set. Naturally, laundry is now a chore. Making sure I have quarters for the machines. Lugging clothes to the laundry room. Hoping there are enough machines available. Going back every 30 minutes to check on them, which means you never really get anything else accomplished. Folding. Hanging. Matching. Putting away. I hate the process.

But today, I treated myself to a small luxury. Laundry service.

It's been several weeks since I've had everything clean at one time. I've only been doing it on an as-needed basis. Out of underwear? Let's wash some. But the pile of dirty clothes growing in the closet bugs the hell out of me, because you find yourself recycling jeans, and planning your wardrobe days in advance because you know all the good tshirts are already dirty.

So by today, I had amassed quite a laundry load, and this morning before work, I gathered it all up and trucked it down the street to the laundromat that also does bundle service. A dollar per pound. Tshirts folded so neatly I almost wept. Socks already matched up. Shirts and jeans on hangers. All I needed to do was put the things away.

Sometimes you just need to make things easy on yourself.

Taking a Trip Down South

All in all, the decision wasn't a hard one. I certainly didn't want to move out the building and have to deal with the moving truck and looking for a place to live.

I certainly didn't want to mooch off my friends for six or more weeks, and not be able to get into my stuff.

So, I've decided to take an apartment in the South Tower. The floor plan is essentially the same. Looking at the empty apartment, it seems smaller. The windows are different. The bathroom fixtures are peach instead of seafoam green. And I face south and east instead of north and west. It should be cooler in the summer because of all the shade on that side. And instead of the skyline view (which I will miss terribly), I do have an idyllic view of the parklike setting behind the building.

The move on July 30th should be relatively easy, since I'm just moving down the elevator, across the lobby and up the other elevator. In fact, I'm considering just moving by putting stuff in a plastic crate to carry it across.

And the more help I have (hint, hint), the less time it will take. Hell, when I moved in, I was moved and unpacked in a matter of hours. That's the test of true friendship!

High Rollers

So I can't resist, but...

VIVA LAS VEGAS!

Yeah, I know that has been shouted by every sorority girl getting drunk in the airport lounge before her flight to Sin City took off.

Hotass and I are going to Vegas, baby!

Well, it's still a few months away but we're going in November.

Can Sin City handle us? My God, that's probably been shouted by a few drunken Deltas too.

So I'll get married while I'm there. But no worries.

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

Bear Hug

I've started growing a beard.

And this is a big deal for me. I've always thought I carried off the clean-cut look, and I guess I've always been pretty hung up on making sure that people saw me that way.

For at least the last six years, I've always had a goatee, and I've been disappointed in it. I was in awe of those guys who had a dark, thick but neatly trimmed goatee. My dad could do it, even though he always had a thick moustache. My brother can do it, too. I don't understand why it skipped me. Mine always seemed two shades lighter than my hair, and grew rather sparsely.

So I never thought I could grew anything more than a goatee, a Van Dyke, a soul patch, or any of the other variations of a fuzzy chin and lip.

But in a moment of desperation and laziness, the beard started to develop. Now, granted it's not thick or bushy, but it finally has developed into one continuous line of hair from sideburn, chin and sideburn.

Is it coincidence that I noticed, at about the same time as my beard began to grow, that so did my belly? Maybe my postured worsened. Or maybe I am getting more rotund. And Hotass and I observed over the weekend that I carried all of my weight in my stomach - in a nice little round food-baby pouch on my waistline.

Maybe I'm learning to embrace my inner bear. Grrr.

What Happens If I Break It?

Today, on two separate occasions, I had two separate people tell me something under "the cone of silence." And then they raised their arms above their heads to make a big Conehead-point.

What the fuck?

Did I miss a pop culture reference?

And what would have happened if I had refused to set foot inside the cone?

A Follow Up to the Most Personal Post Ever

I used to think that gay men were the most sexually liberated people on the planet.

However, the women have proved me wrong. Kimdog and Char have commented with the contents of their sex stash.

Woof-Worthy #8 -- That's Hot

On Friday, the Gaggle performed our own little Live 8 to aid the the sagging Hollywood economy and saw "Fantastic Four."

Hey, you know, it wasn't bad. And if the only reason it wasn't bad was for Chris Evans as The Human Torch, well...then...big deal.

The Human Torch is living proof that even flamers can be attractive.

You'll Have Things You Want to Talk About

In what had to be one of the most profound conversations the Gaggle has ever produced, over the weekend, as we floated on noodles and caught speeds up to 30 m.ph. in the pool's current, the topic turned to Mr. Rogers.

I'm not sure how that happened, but at any rate, all of us being Generation X'ers, Mr. Rogers and his Xanax-drugged neighborhood were a big part of our childhood. And, we unanimously agreed, probably because Mr. Rogers was a just a little creepy, that the Land of Make-Believe was our favorite part of public television. And remembering all the characters took us on the way-back machine.

"And what was the queen's name?"

"Queen Saturday."

"Oh yeah. And Prince Wednesday."

"Wednesday? His name was Prince Tuesday."

"Well, what was the princess's name?"

"Princess? There was no princess."

"I always loved the part about the ping-pong balls."

"What? Ping-pong balls?"

"Yeah, and the moose."

"You dumbfuck. That was Captain Kangaroo."

"Oh, and remember Henrietta the Pussycat."

"Oh yeah! Meow-meow."

"Meow-meow-meow-meow."

"Oh, meow kitty meow-meow pussy on fire meow-meow."

Tragically, we weren't even high to achieve this level of stupidity.

And the conversation didn't stop there. We discussed Lady Elaine, Daniel the Tiger, the Platypus family, and what was the damn owl's name? And there were real people. But we couldn't remember their names either.

It's bothered me all weekend. So to refresh your memory...

• Lady Aberlin
• Handyman Negri
• Chef Brockett
• Mr. McFeely "the Speedy Delivery Man"
• Robert Troll
• Police Officer Clemmons
• King Friday the XIII
• Queen Sara Saturday
• Prince Tuesday
• Lady Elaine Fairchilde (who ran the Museum-Go-Round)
• Henriette Pussycat
• the shy Daniel S. Stripped Tiger (who lived in a clock)
• X the Owl
• Donky Hodie
• Cornflake "Corny" S. Pecially (who owned a rocking chair factory)
• Henri de Tigre (Grandpere)
• William Duckbill Bagpipe Platypus the IV
• Dr. Tadpole Frog
• Harriet Elizabeth Cow,and
• a ventriloquist dummy, Hischer Booptrunk.

The Most Personal Post Ever

Since I started my blog, I've wondered several times if I was being too superficial, barely probing below the facade I show to the world. Am I showing the world the real "me?"

Who cares?

At any rate, I believe if you really want to know a person, look in his or her nightstand drawer. That's where people keep their dirty laundry. Their secrets. Their deepest fears and secrets and desires scribbled in the most recent of a series of diaries kept since they were 13.

Or that's where most people keep their sex stash.

So this is where I reveal the contents of my nightstand drawer with my exclusive commentary. I will warn you, stop reading now if you are under the age of 18, if sexually-explicit content is forbidden in your area of the world, or if you simply don't wish to know this much about me.

And if you read beyond this point, you are never, ever, ever allowed to mention this to me in private or in public. Comment if you want but don't mention this post to me. I couldn't withstand the embarrassment.

Although, I know each and every one of you have a "sex stash" you are afraid to reveal.

Here it is...the contents of my nightstand drawer.

1. A bottle of lube. Wet Platinum.
2. A small bottle of Eros Pjur bodyglide. The Rolls-Royce of personal lubricants.
3. A small bottle of K-Y warming liquid. I was sorely disappointed in this. No warmth. Little satisfaction.
4. A full tube of ManDelay male genital desensitizer. I think that like most men, I have this fear of going too soon. Second only to the fear of not going at all. Or not even getting to the gate. So once upon a time I bought this stuff. But I never got to use it. That's a good thing, right?
5. A nearly-full tube of Anal Glow. Apparently, it provides something akin to the KY warming liquid when applied to the butthole. I decided the cream was more akin to Ben-Gay. Think about it.
6. Nine Lifestyles ultra-sensitive spermicidally lubricated with Nonoxynol-9 latex condoms.
7. A bottle of Rush Liquid Incense.
8. A purple rubber cockring. My favorite.
9. A leather cockring.
10. A leather ball-stretcher and ball-splitter.
11. A combination leather cockring, ball-stretcher and ball splitter with D-ring for ball weights. This is way more complicated than sex should be.
12. Two metal cockrings. One small round one. One thick, flat-edge one. The thicker, rounded-edge one happens to be on the vanity in the bathroom.
13. A set of rubber-tipped nipple clamps. My nipples are hot spots and this works for me. Well, sometimes.
14. A personal cock & ball guide #1 published by Spartacus Enterprises. It came out of one of the leather goods packages and I couldn't figure out where else to put it. So the nightstand drawer it was.
15. One set of anal beads. Blue plastic beads secured by tiny knots. This was the first toy I ever bought, back in college. I thought this would be cool, but not really. Cheap construction.
16. A booklet of Hot Gay Sex Coupons. I spotted these in Borders around Valentine's Day and I thought it would be fun, in the event I had a boyfriend again, to give him one or all. For example, "With this coupon, you can beg me for anything and I won't give it to you, until you beg me for it -- again and again and again and again."
17. One black vibrator. This was a gift to myself on my 23rd birthday. The batteries have died and it barely buzzes, but I keep it for sentimental reasons.
18. One black butt plug. One of the wisest choices I've ever made.
19. One pink translucent dildo. It's huge. Apparently my eyes were bigger than my ass. It never gets much use.
20. One 12" double-ended dildo. The ex and I had one of these and it was amazing. One of the bright spots I'll take away from that relationship. I bought one since and it was STILL amazing.
21. One set of vibrating eggs. The T-man got a set of these for Christmas. And I was jealous.

I think that your nightstand drawer is one of the most personal part about you. It's the thing you don't want your parents to find should you happen to die before them. It's the thing that you have an unwritten plan in place for. I've actually said to my friends and given them keys with the instructions that in the event of my death, they are to get to my apartment and remove all of the lusty evidence.

Okay, so now it's your turn. Publish for the world the contents of your stash.

Right Down the Toilet (Which Happens to Be Basking in Afternoon Sun)

Today, the edict I dreaded came down from on high. The letter was slid under the door.

I have to move, even if temporarily.

Because the elevator repair is estimated to take four to six weeks (although there are no promises), and the property management company cannot guarantee "reasonable access and services," I have been given the following three options:

1. Permanent relocation - They tear up my lease, and I move somewhere else, with a return of my deposit and moving expenses.
2. Permanent relocation to the other tower - Vacate my apartment and move to an apartment in the other tower with a brand-new lease and two months of free rent.
3. Temporary relocation - Pack up the things I need for at least six weeks. Turn in my keys. And mooch off friends until I can return to my old apartment under a new lease and two months of free rent. However, there is no rent or utilities to be paid during the time away.

At this point, options #2 and #3 are looking good. But only #2 if I can get an equally fabulous apartment on the other side. And if the Gaggle can reserve a couple of hours on a Saturday to stuff all my stuff in shopping cart, push them across the lobby, and lug it up to the other side in its fully-functional elevator.

I have until July 15th to decide, and August 13th to be out. Stay tuned for the edge-of-your-seat conclusion.

Freedom to Eat And Drink Anything You Want

So the illness seems to be passing (no pun intended). Finally some sleep, some rice and a cup of tea, and I feel better.

I wish there was some way to provide a recap of the last four days, and as Hotass said, I wish we had kept an inventory of everything the Gaggle ate and drank over the weekend. There were Hebrew National franks, lasagna, burgers, chips and salsa, French onion dip, pasta salad, and Cheddar and Sour Cream Lay's potato chips. One day there was even breakfast with biscuits, bacon and fruit salad.

Oh yeah, and there was the half of German chocolate cake that didn't stand a chance when the Chef passed out forks, set the cake in the middle of the table, and we were all over it like Golden Girls on cheesecake. We didn't even bother to slice and serve.

And we made batch after batch of summer beer in a five-gallon cooler, a refreshing beverage made with beer, vodka, lemonade concentrate and ginger ale. Of course, we ran out of vodka and used whatever random liquors we could find, creating some concoction with rum and juice.

Is it any wonder my stomach decided to turn on me? Am I really surprised I needed to give my digestive system a day to recover?

Happy Fifth of July

It's 3:45 a.m. on the fifth of July, and I have the worst case of insomnia I've ever had. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that every time I close my eyes, my stomach cramps and gurgles, and my guts start to get their booty flu on. I've read for several hours and have taken Tylenol PM, but everytime I get comfortable and nearly asleep, I have to make a mad dash to the potty.

I'm actually going to take a real-live sick day.

Memphis Wide World of Animals - Part 2

A few weeks ago, I posted about the armadillo insurgency into West Tennessee. The critters are getting pretty ballsy to swim the Mississippi and end up in someone's pool.

But perhaps no varmit is as ballsy or as ferocious as the mongoose.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Surely that thing isn't running around wild in Memphis? Well, actually, the mongoose has been spotted at a few Gaggle gatherings. And I'm not sure what draws the carnivore to the Gaggle, but this is my theory.

Given our love of theme parties, we look for opportunities to exploit something...anything. The next birthday is the Artist's on 7-11. And how fun would a Kwik-E Mart party be? We could drink 94-ounce Big Gulps. Eat nachos and hotdogs roasted on the rolling hotdog-cooker.Wear nametags. And play games we played in our native Pakistan.

Like "Duck, Duck, Mongoose." You know the game where everbody sits in a circle. And "It" walks around the circle tapping everyone between the eyes hard enough to leave a red dot and saying "Duh-ck. Duh-ck." Until someone is lucky enough to be deemed "MONGOOSE!" And Mongoose chases It around the circle, shouting "lalalalalalalalalalala" until someone claims the mongoose's spot.

Little did we realize this game is also played to summon the killer mongoose out of the brush.